


Beautifully Insane

by CohanLove0106



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/M, Ghost Sex, Romance, Teen Pregnancy, Teen Romance, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 35
Words: 189,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11348271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CohanLove0106/pseuds/CohanLove0106
Summary: [Tate x OC | Murder House | 2011] The Devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He's beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favorite. He's insane. Driven mad by the horrors of the world. He's dangerous. Because everything about him is beautifully insane.





	1. Preface

Somehow I knew it wasn't over yet. There seemed to be a finality to the events that had occurred, to what was going on right now, but I knew it was far from over. I could feel it. This wasn't the last of it like I was so desperately hoping. There was more to come.  
  
        I stared blankly down at the half cup of lukewarm camomile tea in front of me. My teary eyes watched the liquid swirl around, locked onto the reflection peering back up at me, haunted and mourning. Everything around me seemed to fade away as I continued to assess the girl staring back up at me. I hardly recognized her anymore. She had changed.  
  
        And it was because of that damn house.  
  
        "Miss Harmon?"  
  
        The voice pierced into my thoughts, kind and empathetic. I raised my eyes to meet the gentle gaze of the police officer sitting across from me.  
  
        "I understand this is difficult for you, Miss Harmon, but I need you to tell me what happened."  
  
        The question I was still asking myself.  _What had happened in that house?_  The answer was hazy, unclear, yet it was so simple. But I couldn't tell the police what I knew. They would lock me up in the state hospital if they knew the real story. They wouldn't believe me.  
  
        I swallowed and looked down at my hands. "I don't know," I whispered.  
  
        But I  _did_  know. I knew  _exactly_  what went on in that house. I just didn't know  _why_. Why me? Why us? Why  _my_  family, out of all the families to live there over the years, why did it have to be  _mine?_  
  
        The policeman sighed. "Miss Harmon, I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened."  
  
        Help me? There was no helping me. Not after what I had gone through. There was no helping any of us. We had all been damned the moment we bought the property. We just hadn't known it at the time.  
  
        From the moment  I laid my eyes on the house for the first time, I had known there was something wrong with it. I could feel it, like a strange sort of energy surrounded the property. But they didn't listen to me. They just brushed me off, dismissed my suspicions as me being nervous about settling into a new house.  
  
        They didn't listen, and now they were all dead. All of them.  
  
        My eyes lifted once more to lock onto the officer's. "No one can help me."

* * *

**I am copy and pasting this from my Quotev editor, so the spacing might be a little off.**


	2. New Beginnings

Nearly every child experiences a move at least once with their family. Some moves are merely across town, and some are across the entire country. None, however, could possibly be as stressful as this one.  
  
        Boston, Massachusetts, to Los Angeles, California, was quite the road trip for a family to make together. It really gave one the opportunity to think about everything rattling around inside their minds, the stuff they had stored away in the back for later contemplation. And driving alone, with no one else in the car to talk to but yourself, made it that much easier to access those certain thoughts.  
  
        It had all started a little over a year ago, with the miscarriage. Mom had been seven months pregnant with my little brother Joel when the news was delivered. She was to carry him to full term, delivering him at nine months, but he wouldn't be coming home with us. He wouldn't be welcomed into the world with loving arms, wouldn't be brought to his home or be surrounded by a loving family. No, Joel would be lowered into the ground mere days later, concealed in an impossibly tiny coffin as we surround the grave, mourning for the loss of a life that never even had a chance.  
  
        Vivien Harmon was a strong woman by nature. Not a lot could visibly phase her, and if something ever did, she never let it show. But the loss of her third child, her first boy, while still enveloped in her womb was enough to push her over the edge. She grew depressed, wouldn't come out of her room, just stayed curled up in a ball on her bed, her arms cradling her once rounded stomach.  
  
        The months dragged on until eventually she started to immerse herself once more with the outside world. About six months after the loss of Joel was when she seemed to have made a full recovery. I was glad to see her up and about again, and so was my younger sister Violet, but our father had already sought out and found comfort in the arms of one of his psychology students. Mom had caught them together in their own bedroom while Violet and I were out shopping.  
  
        A rift was then constructed between my parents. My dad tried everything to make it up to her. Mom made her best effort to forgive him. Nothing was working, their marriage was in shambles. And I placed the blame completely on Ben Harmon and Hayden McClaine.  
  
        Even the mere  _mention_  of the girl's name was enough to spark anger within me. She was the homewrecker who made our family life fall apart. It was because of  _her_  that we were now moving all the way across the country, the reason Violet had to start another school in the middle of the year and try to find someone to fit in with, and the reason my father and I no longer had that special bond that father and daughters do.  
  
        I hated Ben for what he did. I hated him for leaving Mom in her time of need, leaving Violet and I to care for her, or rather leaving  _me_  to take care of  _them_. I hated him for cheating on Mom. I hated him for picking a girl who was only five years my senior.  
  
        Everything had changed. It had had the biggest impact on Violet. She had always been a troubled girl, always the darker type who would rather be alone than socialize, but her behavior had recently taken a turn that I was afraid was going to end up at the end of a path of destruction. Ever since Mom had caught Ben and Hayden fucking, ever since our family life was forever altered, I had caught Violet smoking cigarettes that she had stolen and a razor in her hand as she slid it across her forearms.  
  
        I was afraid for her well-being, and I hated Ben for causing that.  
  
        Now, as I followed along behind their car as it cruised down the freeway, my thumbs absentmindedly tapping the leather of the steering wheel, I watched as my sister turned around in the backseat of our parents' vehicle and silently pleaded with her eyes to get her out of there. They had made her ride with them. It was probably awkward for her, being stuck in a car for a long trip with two people who barely talked to each other, one of which she tended to avoid herself. Feeling sorry for her, I reached over and grabbed my cellphone, briefly glancing away from the road to unlock it and call Violet before putting it on speakerphone.  
  
        She picked up after a few rings.  _"Yeah?"_  
  
        "Put me on speaker, Vi," I requested.  
  
         _"Will do."_  There was a slight shuffling as she did what I said. Suddenly I could hear the wind passing by their windows and knew she had done it.  _"Okay."_  
  
         _"What's up, Abbie?"_  Mom asked.  
  
        Glancing down at my gas gauge, trying to see how much of a fib it would be, I said, "Can we stop at the next gas station? I'm running a little low." It wasn't  _too_  big of a fib. The indicator was starting to crawl towards the bottom, now positioned just outside of the orange zone.  
  
         _"We'll keep an eye out,"_ Ben agreed.  
  
        Hallie, Mom's new poodle-chihuahua mix, barked. Mom shushed her before sighing.  _"The light out here is different. Softer, don't you think, Abbie?"_  
  
        Before I could respond, Violet spoke up.  _"It's called smog, Mom,"_  she drawled in correction. I rolled my eyes at her attitude, but I knew she wasn't wrong.  
  
         _"You should be excited, Vi,"_  Ben said.  _"You can stop sneaking cigarettes and just start taking deep breaths."_  
  
        Another roll of my eyes. The way I saw it, he no longer held the right to make those kind of comments. He lost that right the moment he made eyes at his star student. She probably even aced his class for going down on him.  
  
        It was disgusting for me to even think about.  
  
        Violet clicked her tongue, the sound coming through sharp as it was picked up on speaker from both ends of the line.  _"I'll stick to the cigarettes, thanks,"_ she snapped. I could picture her expression, lined with annoyance as she rolled her hazel eyes at the remark.  
  
         _"I'm glad we decided against our first name for you,"_ Ben said.  
  
        Violet sighed.  _"Which was?"_  
  
        A second passed before Mom's voice came through the speaker.  _"Sunshine,"_  she answered. I could hear the amusement, picture the playful smile on her lips.  
  
        A snort escaped me. The idea itself was laughable. Violet, the girl who liked everything dark and unusual, named  _Sunshine_. God, what a horrible name that was. A hippie name. You'd almost have to hate your child to write that name down and then willingly sign their birth certificate. I'm so glad they decided against that name.  
  
        But it made me wonder what other names they had considered for  _me._  People often told me I didn't look like an Abigail. Some say I looked more like an Emily, or an Emma. I've also heard the names Grace and Rose tossed towards me in speculation. Maybe one of  _those_  had been a first choice for me.  
  
        Violet seemed to be thinking somewhat along the same lines as me.  _"Ha ha,"_  she mocked sarcastically, and somehow I knew it was directed towards me and my amusement at the name.  _"What was your first choice for Abbie then?"_  
  
        _"Starfire,"_  Mom replied.  
  
        I cringed at the mere thought of me living out my life with a name like Starfire. "What the fuck, guys?" I muttered. Violet snorted. Probably as a revenge since I snorted at  _her_  almost-name.  
  
        Mom tutted.  _"Honestly, Abigail, you know I hate that word. Unless it's coming from me,"_  she added as an afterthought.  
  
        I smiled even though I knew she couldn't see it. Sometimes Mom just amazed me. She had gone through so much, had put up with so much, especially here in the past year or so, and yet she always seemed to find a way to make light of certain situations. She was the type of woman I wanted to be when the time came to start my own family.  
  
        Our connection over the phone was cut as we caught sight of a gas station. I followed Ben's signals, and soon enough we were all outside and stretching our legs. Hallie's nose instantly touched the ground as she excitedly took in all the new scents. Violet came over to stand by me as I leaned against my car with my arms crossed, waiting patiently for my prepaid tank to fill up.  
  
        "Having fun?" I drawled.  
  
        Her bright eyes rolled as she groaned in distress. "They're  _so_  awkward right now. It's awful riding with them, watching them pretend everything is okay when it isn't," she complained, running a hand through her light brown hair as a sigh escaped her lips.  
  
        I knew how she was feeling. Mom and Ben tried to make it seem normal for Violet and me, forcing small compliments or a soft touch here and there, but we weren't stupid. We knew things between them would probably never go back to normal. At least not the normal we once knew.  
  
        Sighing, I removed the nozzle from my filled fuel tank and replaced it back on the station. "Mom's doing the best she can," I told Violet. I couldn't, however, say the same for Ben. He seemed content to just go on pretending like his infidelity was a figment of our imaginations.  
  
        "I know, but is this move really what we need? It's not going to magically solve all of our problems."  
  
        I gently placed a hand on my sister's shoulder. "Vi, this could be a good opportunity for you. Maybe you'll find someone to get along with at your new school, or a neighbor," I tried.  
  
        The truth was, I was just as against this move as she was. It was a bandaid. If anything, the stress of this move could ultimately be the thing that ripped this family apart for good. Violet, I knew, was dealing with it in her own way, by lashing out and sulking. She didn't exactly fit in with any of her peers back in Boston. As much as I didn't agree with this cross-country move, I was hoping Los Angeles would have someone Violet could relate to. I was trying to stay positive.  
  
        She scoffed and shook my hand off her shoulder ."Yeah, right. No one ever wants to even  _try_ to get to know the weird girl or the new girl -- and now I'm both."  
  
        Violet and I had always been close. With only a year and a half between us, she currently being fifteen and I having recently turned seventeen, we were closer in our relationship than most other siblings. I had always been the one she would come to when she needed to talk, and I would always go to her when I needed to get something off my chest. We were even close than either of us had ever been to Mom. We were each other's best friend, the one person we knew we could turn to in a time of need or distress. We essentially saved each other.  
  
        So to see the despair concealed in the hazel of her irises, to hear the pain laced in with her words, it hurt me in a way that I knew nothing else could. It hurt because no matter how hard I tried to help her, no matter how hard I tried to ease her suffering, there really wasn't anything I could do. I couldn't just take away her pain and make it my own like I would do in a heartbeat if given just one chance.  
  
        I sighed softly and wrapped my arms around her, bringing her into a gentle embrace as I wished all of her suffering away. Her arms wound around my back and held her body to me. She wasn't normally one for public displays of affection of any kind, or any sort of human contact for extended periods of time, but she didn't object and just held me as gently as I held her. It was the only source of comfort I could bring to her.  
  
        "Let's try and make the most out of this, yeah?" I whispered, pressing a light kiss to the side of her head. "We can do it together, we can make this work."  
  
        Violet nodded her head and pulled back to look at me. I smiled weakly and raised my hand up to her face, brushing away some of the strands that had fallen into her eyes. She gave me a small smile in return. It wasn't enough to fool me into believing she would quit her sulking and gain an optimistic outlook on the situation, but I knew it was the best I would be able to coax out of her, so I took it.  
  
        Mom returned to the car with Hallie in her arms after making sure the little one had her bathroom break. Ben exited the gas station with an armful of bottled water. He passed them around to everyone -- after finally convincing Mom, who protested vehemently because she was into everything organic and never let us drink out of plastic bottles because of the chemicals -- before announcing it was time to get back on track. I quickly ushered Violet into my car before either of them could make her ride with them the rest of the way. It wasn't too hard to convince Mom to let her ride with me instead.  
  
        Ben didn't seem all that thrilled about it, but I could care less what he thought.  He probably just didn't want to be alone with Mom where there was a possibility of talking about what happened back in Boston. Somehow I doubted the subject would even be breached at all. They would sit  in complete silence without another person there with them to help direct any conversation.  
  
        My car wasn't much better. I had thought maybe Violet would have something to talk about after sitting in our parents' car for hours on end, but it was just as silent as the tension between Mom and Ben was heavy. She immediately stuck her earbuds in her ears and blasted Morrissey from her phone. I was more of a Nirvana fan myself, preferring Kurt Cobain over the vocalist for The Smiths. But Violet had always been more drawn to Morrissey's hatred of the world. I supposed she felt like, in a sense, that he understood her. Like his music was made for her, and she connected with it. She could block out the world if she had his voice in her ear.  
  
        I glanced over at her to find her eyes closed. Her head rested against the window, one leg drawn up and hugged to her chest. Seeing her so relaxed brought a small smile to me. She looked peaceful. That was an expression I didn't see too much of on her. Violet always seemed so burdened with the weight of everything. School work, judgemental classmates, home. She always had so much worry on her shoulders. I was hoping this move, once everything had settled, would remove some of it from her. Maybe out here she could finally have a shot of fitting in with the other kids. Maybe she could finally meet someone willing to see her for who she was, a sweet girl looking for acceptance, instead of focusing on her individuality.  
  
        This move was supposed to be a new beginning for all of us. Not just for our struggling parents. It could either be good or bad, and I knew it was up to us, which one we made it out to be. For the sake of my family, no matter what I had to do to make it happen, I was determined it was going to be good. I would work at making this work for us, for Mom and Violet. Even Ben if Mom decided to keep trying to make it work between them. This new beginning would be the start of something new for all of us.  
  
        "Well," I sighed to myself, lifting my water bottle and taking a sip, making sure to keep one hand on the wheel and my eyes on the road, "here's to new beginnings."

* * *

**A/N: I know Violet is 17 in the show, but I changed it for the sake of this story.**


	3. Addams Family

Gazing up at the house looming in front of me, I suddenly found it difficult to retain my optimistic outlook on this move. If this was the type of place we were even vaguely considering living in, then I no longer saw that glimmer of hope I had been holding onto since the cross-country relocation was announced. My eyes swept across the red brick exterior, taking in the white bricks outlining the multitude of windows, some stained-glass, some paned. It looked like a set stolen from an Alfred Hitchcock film.  
  
        An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled in response to the sudden heaviness in the surrounding air. I frowned and pulled my dark hair back into a ponytail, trying to remind myself that this was supposed to be a good thing. That I had vowed to myself I would do my best to make this whole thing work for us. But I couldn't shake off the feeling that something just wasn't right about this mansion-style home. The energy felt different, charged, like when someone with obvious intent to do harm walked into the same room as you, into your personal space. It felt crowded.  
  
        "I love it," Ben suddenly spoke, pulling my attention towards where he stood upon the porch, Mom at his side with Hallie in her arms. "Don't you love it, hon?" he asked, pressing his finger to the doorbell. "I mean, it looks even better than it did online."  
  
        Mom shrugged slightly as she glanced around. "Yeah. It's . . . interesting," she supplied vaguely.  
  
        Knowing I wasn't the only one who appeared to be getting a weird feeling from the place made me feel a little better. My mouth twisted into a grimace before I pressed my lips together in a thin line, turning my attention to my sister as she moved to stand next to me. Her eyes roamed around the property as she took everything in with a stoic expression that made it impossible to tell what she was thinking. Then she huffed.  
  
        "Great," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. "So we're the Addams family now."  
  
        I sighed. Raising my fingers to fiddle with my necklace, given to me by Violet for my tenth birthday seven years ago, like I did when I was nervous, I replied, "We make the Addams family look like the Kardashians."  
  
        Ben turned around upon hearing our lack of enthusiasm about the house he was clearly so in love with. He stretched an arm out towards us, a big grin stretched across his face. "Come here, you two grouches," he laughed. Violet sighed and walked up to him. I lingered behind for a little bit, a scowl on my face, before following.  
  
        He draped an arm over Violet's shoulders. When he tried to drape his other arm over mine, I moved out of his reach and closer to Mom. She sighed as he dropped his arm before wrapping hers around my shoulders like he tried to do. She held me close and placed a light kiss to the side of my head. Mom knew how I felt about my father. She even said she understood if I didn't want anything to do with him for a while. I had my sights set on for a longer time period than that, but I was just grateful she wasn't trying to make me forgive him for what he did.  
  
        The green door suddenly swung open to reveal a woman dressed in a professional blue pantsuit with a light flower clipped onto the collar. Her dark blonde hair was short and neatly combed, curling slightly at the very ends around the back of her neck. She smiled at the four of us, her brown eyes sparkling excitedly with the prospect of potential buyers. Marcy, I think her name was. The realtor. It was her job to sell this place.  
  
        "Welcome," she greeted cheerfully, stepping aside to let us in the house.  
  
        The interior was gorgeous. Hardwood covered the hallway floors, protected by decorative rugs. Wood paneling made up the walls, covering the archways that led into different common areas. The stairs led up to a platform before turning and setting a path to the second story. White carpet covered the steps. Light fixtures hung from the ceiling. Stained glass windows allowed a unique play of light to stream into the entryway.  
  
        Despite how awed I was at the pure beauty of the place, the unease I felt only strengthened. It reached a point to where my stomach was almost queasy. Not the kind of queasy that could happen when you're nervous, like the butterflies in your stomach just got too much to handle, but the kind of queasy where it feels like there's a slight possibility of you actually getting physically sick. My face twisted into discomfort at the feeling, but I swallowed it down and tried to focus on what Marcy was saying.  
  
        "It's a classic L.A. Victorian. Built around the 1920s by the doctor to the stars at the time. It's just fabulous." She pointed up at one of the lights on our way down the hall. "These are real Tiffany fixtures." We continued into what looked like a family room. "As you can see, the previous owners really loved this place like a child. They restored everything."  
  
        "Gay?" Mom wondered aloud.  
  
        The immediate sheepish upturn of her lips made me smile slightly through my discomfort. It reminded me just how much I took after her. I, too, sometimes struggled to keep my thoughts to myself and tended to say whatever was on my mind the moment it formed. Sometimes it landed me in trouble. Other times it was just embarrassing. Either for me or for whoever was with me. I had gotten better at filtering my thoughts and my speech, but occasionally one or two slipped through and escaped.  
  
        Marcy just smiled and said pointedly, "What do you think?"  
  
        The realtor then started walking again, gesturing for us to follow. We were introduced into another. Alternating black and white tiles made up the flooring. Stainless steel appliances gleamed in the sunlight streaming through not only the window above the sink, but from the three windows curving outward in the little outcropping, the extra space allowing room for the cushioned benches lining the frame and the small table. All of the cabinets had windowed doors and were made up of the same type of wood that made up the rest of the house. An island sat in the middle, two bar stools lining the edge as an extra sitting area.  
  
        It was by far one of the nicest kitchens I had ever seen. Definitely bigger than the one we had back in Boston. Looked more expensive, too. The previous owners had spared no expense during their renovations.  
  
        "Do you cook?" Marcy questioned as she stood by the island.  
  
        I noticed as Ben and Violet entered behind us that Violet had extracted herself from our father's side. She came over to stand by me and Mom. A bored expression marred her features, though her eyes quickly darted around the room, taking in her surroundings. When they landed on me, I offered up a small, encouraging smile, hoping it didn't resemble the grimace I felt it was. I knew I had failed when her immediate reaction was to frown and her eyebrows furrowed in concern.  
  
        Barely moving my head side to side in a negative gesture, without drawing any attention to myself from the adults, I silently let Violet know she shouldn't worry about me. I was fine. It was just a little nausea. It was probably just from the ride over here. Being in a car for too long at once sometimes upset my stomach. People said that the motion of a moving vehicle was supposed to be calming, but it had the opposite effect on me a lot of the time. I didn't have motion sickness unless I was stuck in a moving vehicle for more than a few hours at a time. Like this move from Massachusetts to California.  
  
        "Abbie loves baking," Ben said, responding to Marcy's question as he came up and placed a hand on my shoulder. "And Viv is a great cook," he added, smiling at his wife. "I got her cooking lessons a few years ago, and she ended up teaching the teacher a few things."  
  
        Shrugging Ben's hand off of my shoulder, I tucked my arms across my chest. It honestly annoyed me how insistent he was with maintaining all the casual contact that we used to exchange before everything happened. I was willing to understand that I was still his daughter, and he was still my father, and all these little touches were probably more out of habit than anything, but I hated having to constantly remind him not to touch me anymore. Every time he did it just made me envision  _her_  all over him. She was only a few years older than me, so I guess I just took it kind of personally. At least with the whole touching thing.  
  
        Within me I knew that I was being harsh on my father. He was human. He made mistakes. This just happened to be a really big one. But throughout my whole life he had been the one guy I knew beyond shadow of a doubt that I would always be able to count on. The one guy that would stick around even when others would come and go. Then he went and turned his back on his family for one night of self-gratification, and my heart had been broken. The trust had been shattered into a million pieces. It was like a mirror. You could always sweep up the shards and glue them back together, but every little crack and chip will still shine through that reflection, reminding you of what had happened, no matter how hard you try and forget about it.  
  
        So I may be a little harsh regarding how I spoke about and treated him, but every time I even thought about giving him a glimmer of a second chance, I looked back into that mirror and saw what had become of the reflection staring back at me.  
  
        "Cooking lessons . . . romantic," Marcy noted with a polite smile towards Mom before then turning her eyes to Ben. "Aren't you a psychologist?"  
  
        "Psychiatrist," he corrected with a tight smile. "You said something on the phone about there being a study that I could use as a home office?" He wrapped an arm around Mom and Violet's shoulders, respectfully leaving me out of the family hug, though he did give me a pleading sideways glance that I deliberately chose to ignore. "I'm planning on seeing patients here, so I can spend more time with the family."  
  
        Marcy retained her polite smile. "How refreshing."  
  
        Mom sighed quietly and, frustrated with all the wiggling around she was doing, set Hallie down on the ground. The small dog immediately took off, her nails clicking against the tile and then the hardwood as she ran out of the kitchen, barking at something. I frowned and stared after her, wondering what could have earned her attention so fast.  
  
        "Girls," Mom sighed again, looking towards Violet and me, "would you please go see where Hallie went?" She smiled tiredly when we agreed. "Thank you."  
  
        Violet and I exited the kitchen side by side. We headed down the hall towards where Hallie's squeaky barking was coming from. The poodle-chihuahua mix had always been a mouthy little thing. Then again, most small dogs were, thinking they were bigger than they really were. Hallie was quiet when we first brought her home, though, and I imagine that was just because she was too nervous trying to figure everything out to worry about what she should be barking about.  
  
        Mom fell in love with Hallie when we spotted her at the humane society about six months after Joel. The miscarriage had left her feeling empty inside, so I decided that what she really needed was a baby to take care of, and as a little gift I drove her to the humane society so she could pick out an animal to care for. I knew it could never be the same as having a beautiful baby boy in the house, but I figured it had to be the next best thing. The moment Mom laid eyes on the fluffy creature, she immediately pointed her out to me. Hallie came home with us that day.  
  
        Neither Ben nor Violet had been too thrilled when we returned with one more soul than we had left with. Violet knew what Hallie was, a replacement for our stillborn brother, and disliked her for it. Ben just didn't want her. But he eventually gave in and let Mom keep her, like he even had any say in the matter in the first place, because he felt guilty. Hallie grew on me the longer I spent time with her and Mom. Now she was just another member of our family.  
  
        Violet and I eventually found Hallie standing on the other side of the staircase. Her fur was stood up on end as she faced a door, barking her little heart out, even going so far as to let out a warning growl every now and again. Seeing her so intense only served to increase the dread and nausea mingling within me. I frowned.  
  
        "What are you yapping at?" Violet snapped, leaning down to scoop the little dog into her arms.  
  
        Hesitantly wrapping my hand around the doorknob, I twisted it and went to pull the door open, but it wouldn't budge. The knob would turn just fine. The door itself seemed stuck. Finally, after several failed attempts at Violet's urging curiosity, I managed to tug it open. Revealed from behind the wooden blockade was a set of stairs leading down into a dark space.  
  
        Shaking my head, I muttered, "Just the basement."  
  
        Without sparing it a second glance, I shut the door back into the frame. I didn't deal with basements. While it was a childish fear, one that I possessed for as long as I could remember, it was a real one all the same. Basements were always dark, and full of spiders and rats, and they were always . . .  _creepy_. That's just it. They were creepy. Being in a basement had always made me feel like there was someone behind me, watching my every move just over my shoulder, ready to pounce at just the right time. It was unnerving.  
  
        There was no desire within me to go exploring this one. So I gently grabbed my sister's elbow and steered her and Hallie back down the hall towards the kitchen. Voices carried out to us from another room. When Violet and I followed them, we found ourselves in a different section, this one with an outcropping like the one in the kitchen, but without the benches and table. This one was empty. It was spacious. Windows lined the wall and allowed the sunlight to stream in and glint off of the polished hardwood. The wallpaper was starting to peel off the paneling.  
  
        "Oh, God . . . they didn't die in here or anything, did they?" Mom wondered.  
  
        My frown became more pronounced at her worry. Who were they talking about? The previous owners? They died? Was that why this house was back on the market? I shared a look with Violet, but while mine was probably conveying my unease and discomfort, hers only portrayed an excited curiosity.  
  
        Marcy sighed. "Yes, actually, both of them. Murder-suicide. I sold them the house, too." She paused and smiled sadly. "They were just the sweetest couple. You never know, I guess."  
  
        The churning in my stomach kicked up half a notch. Someone actually died in this house. While I didn't necessarily believe in ghosts or spirits, I wasn't comfortable knowing that we could possibly soon be living in a house where two people had lost their lives. It didn't feel right to even consider buying the place anymore. Especially because we would have to actually live in it after the purchase. There was no way my parents were still considering it after learning about the previous owners.  
  
        Ben sighed and glanced around. "That explains why it's half the price of every other house in the neighborhood, I guess," he remarked casually.  
  
        I directed my frown towards him for a brief second. Did he not question that when he first found the place? This house was easily twice as more costly than any of the other surrounding properties. Surely he would have inquired as to why the price was so low. Or did he just move us out here to a random house based on the fact that  _he_  loved it and it was within our price range?  _Never mind any horror the building could mask!_  
  
        Marcy's smile became tight. She nodded her head in indication that his assumption about the reasoning behind the house's suspiciously low pricing was correct. Folding her hands in front of her, she offered, "I  _do_  have a very nice mid-century ranch, but it's in the Valley, and you're going to get a third of the house for twice the price."  
  
        "Right," Ben nodded.  
  
        Violet then decided to speak up, finally alerting the three adults to our presence. Still cradling Hallie in her arms, she asked curiously, "Where did it happen?"  
  
        Mom, Ben, and Marcy all turned to look at us. I shifted my eyes sideways to glance at my sister. Her somewhat dark personality sometimes worried me. I could understand being curious or even interested about something as morbid as a murder-suicide, that was just in our nature as human beings, but something in her eyes lit up as she asked. I knew then that she would want the house. She didn't believe in ghosts, either, but I think she was more fascinated with the dark history than anything.  
  
        "The basement," Marcy said.  
  
        Her words were rushed out, like the location would change our thoughts. People were usually afraid of basements already, so what was the harm of throwing a couple of dead bodies in with the cobwebs and rodents? I shuddered at the mere thought of decomposing corpses just underneath my feet. Of course I knew they were no longer there, they had long since been moved and buried properly, but it was just the idea. Suddenly my fear of basements seemed a little more justified to me.  
  
        Then my sister spoke up again. She only spoke three words this time, but those three words were enough to send a wave of dread over me, to send my stomach rolling, coming dangerously close to forcing its contents up my throat. The three words that had the potential to help repair my life, or tear it apart.  
  
        "We'll take it."


	4. Cleansing

The strips of wallpaper peeled effortlessly from the walls and floated down to rest on the floor. Images were slowly revealed from behind the fibrous coverings as they were stripped away. Faces and heads gave way to bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Certain figures seemed rather demonic in nature. A mural of horrors was gradually unveiling across the expanse of the walls.  
  
        Stepping away from the section I was working on, I examined the segment that had been hiding behind the paper. My nausea had dissipated since the first tour through the house, but the general unease and discomfort remained even after spending a night there. The images depicted in the mural only served to further solidify them. Whoever decided the mural would be a wonderful decoration for the living room had to have been as dark and twisted as the paintings themselves. The previous owners had been right to cover them up.  
  
        Mom glanced over from where she was working on her section. Strips littered the floor around her feet, rustling as she took a small step backwards to turn towards me. "What's wrong, kiddo?"  
  
        My frown seemed permanently etched on my face at this point. Wrapping my arms around myself, using my hands to cradle my elbows, I spoke plainly. "I don't like it."  
  
        "It  _is_  a little creepy," she agreed, turning her attention back to the walls, "but I think it gives the room character."  
  
        I stared at her in disbelief. Putting aside for a moment that I wasn't just talking about the choice of decoration, I repeated her words inside of my head.  _I think it gives the room character._  Character. Curtain rods or shutters gave a room character. Not . . . whatever the hell this was. This was just a nightmare. In fact, I was pretty sure that this room was going to  _give_  me nightmares.  
  
        Finally I sighed and shook my head. "I'm not talking about the walls, I don't like it  _here_ , I don't like this house," I confessed, sucking my bottom lip into my mouth and holding it there with my teeth. My fingers flew up to fiddle once more with my necklace as I waited for her reaction.  
  
        It made me feel bad that I didn't like the house. I knew how much Mom and Violet loved it. Hell, Ben even loved it so much that I almost felt guilty for his part. This house was supposed to be a fresh start for all of us. It was supposed to be the thing that would somehow become the adhesive keeping our family together. I had promised myself I would do anything it took to make it all work out. But there I was, doubting everything about it, and possibly about to crush my mother's vision of us living here.  
  
        Mom merely laughed, the beautiful, soothing sound bouncing off the walls and reverberating back to me in the empty space of the room. "What do you mean you don't like the house? It's gorgeous," she pointed out.  
  
        "It is," I hesitantly allowed, not wanting to take credit away from the property's lavishness, "but . . . I don't know, it just gives me a weird feeling." Sighing again, I shuffled my feet on the wooden floor, watching the fallen strips of wallpaper scatter with my movements. "I have a really bad feeling about this place."  
  
        "Nonsense, Abigail," Mom chided gently, her smile still lighting up her radiant features, her smokey blue eyes still sparkling with mirth. "You're just nervous about settling into a new place and starting over. I am, too! But, give it a few days to settle in. I'm sure you'll warm up to the place in no time, sweetie." She then stepped back as I frowned at her, upset that she was brushing my concerns to the side like they were nothing more than silly, childish notions, and drew her forearm across her forehead to collect the accumulating perspiration. "Whoo!"  
  
        I couldn't help the slight twinge of betrayal I felt grip at my heart. My own mother had just brushed aside my feelings like they meant nothing. Granted, they were just suspicions and probably nothing more than that, but I felt like she could have at least taken the time to hear me out about it. But, realizing I was being childish and selfish about it, I decided to bite my tongue and just let it go. She didn't mean to hurt my feelings. It was ridiculous that my feelings even got hurt in the first place. I needed to stop being so sensitive.  
  
        A voice ripped me away from my inner monologue. It was an unfamiliar voice, not belonging to anyone I recognized. Not Ben, for it was a more feminine voice, but it also wasn't Violet's. My body gave a slight jolt in surprise at the sudden and unexpected vocalization. Not to mention ominous.  
  
        "You're going to die in here."  
  
        It wasn't even a threat. The statement was spoken plain as day, as flat and casual as though someone were telling us the weather outside. Like it was a well-known fact that we should also know about.  
  
        Mom and I both let out startled screams and whirled around to face the speaker. There was a girl standing in front of us. She looked to be maybe around my age or a little older. Her blue-grey eyes stared us down seriously. An orange headband decorated with flowers on the right side kept her dark brown hair in place, her bangs straightly cut and curled inwards just above her eyes. She was wearing a pastel blue dress decorated with leaves and flowers that looked like it was made for Easter, and a yellow cardigan lay open and exposed the bow tied at her waist. From the looks of how her facial features were spaced, it was easy to tell she had Down Syndrome.  
  
        "Who are you?" Mom demanded, a hand resting over her heart. "What are you doing?" The girl just continued to stare, not saying another word as her lips pressed together in a thin line. "What are you doing here?"  
  
        At that moment another voice drifted to our ears. The name 'Adelaide' was being called out with a slight Southern twang. I assumed that was the name of the girl standing in front of us. We then looked to the doorway as another woman entered the room. She was on the older side, yet still retained her youth in the slight wrinkles across her otherwise smooth complexion. Her dark blonde hair was short and coiffed, highlights of darker undertones peeking through and creating a golden contrast. She was dressed in an elegant, sheer, blue dress with large flowers making up the design. All in all, she was more dignified than any of us there in the room. At least she dressed like it.  
  
        When she walked through the doorway, she sighed and shook her head in disappointment, her hands holding onto a small package that she held in front of her. "Adelaide, I put on  _Dora the Explorer_  for you, so you would sit and watch it," she told the girl firmly.  
  
        "It was  _Go, Diego, Go!_ " Adelaide argued with a shake of her head, turning to look at the woman, who I assumed to be her mother. "I don't like it."  
  
        The woman clicked her tongue. "Oh, brown cartoon characters . . . You can't tell the difference."  
  
        Her attitude immediately caused my frown to deepen. Something about her instantly grated on my nerves. Maybe it was the comment about Adelaide's 'brown cartoon characters' from those animated shows every kid loved -- I was never one for racism, believing fully that everyone deserves the respect they themselves give others. My mind did register, however, that it was a little odd for someone who looked to be around my age to still enjoy those kinds of educational cartoons, although I just wrote it off that her apparent Down Syndrome, if I was correct in my assumption, had an impact on that. But that line of thought was pushed aside by my annoyance at the older woman.  
  
        First Adelaide broke into our home and stated very factually that we were going to die. Then she followed after her and wasn't even bothering to acknowledge us. She was acting like it was her house when it wasn't. I wasn't thrilled about it being  _my_  house, but that still didn't give her the right to just barge in. Either of them. Although, I was willing to be a little forgiving considering the brunette's probable mental condition.  
  
        Clearing her throat a little to grab the woman's attention, Mom enjoined, "Excuse me."  
  
        The woman moved her eyes from Adelaide to where Mom and I stood, confused and waiting for an explanation. A polite smile spread across her face as she greeted, "Hi."  
  
        "Hi," Mom returned uncertainly.  
  
        "I'm Constance, your neighbor from next door," she introduced before placing both of her hands on the other girl's shoulders, "and this is my girl Adelaide."  
  
        Adelaide's eyes had turned and locked onto me. The way she stared was like she was peering into and analyzing the darkest depths of my soul. It was making me feel a little uncomfortable, but I just raised my hand and wiggled my fingers a bit in a welcoming gesture, forcing my mouth to curl up into a small smile. She just continued to stare. Her expression never betrayed whatever she was thinking. It was just blank, stoic, and completely serious. I had to drop my own eyes down to study my shoes as a way to avoid her unwavering one.  
  
        Mom continued to be polite, smiling slightly as she nodded, "Hello."  
  
        "Go home, Addie, now," Constance ordered, waiting for her daughter to obey her and leave the room before sighing. "That girl is a monster. I love her and I'm a good Christian, but Jesus H. Christ." She shook her head as we watched her with apprehension. "You know, if they had invented some of those tests a few years ago, I would have . . ."  
  
        I frowned again as she trailed off, leaving the end of the sentence open to suggestion. It was clear what she was insinuating. If they had had the tests available back when she was pregnant with Adelaide, the ones that were able to detect the possibility of the child having Down Syndrome, she would have aborted her unborn child. If those tests had been available to her back then, Adelaide wouldn't even exist today. Having experienced my mother go through a horrible miscarriage made me sensitive to the topic. Mom couldn't have her son, but Constance would have taken up the chance to abort her daughter just because she had an extra chromosome.  
  
        But her remark wasn't the only thing that bugged me about her. I was also irritated with how she just made herself at home. It wouldn't have been an issue if she had been an invited guest, but she just barged in and acted like she owned the place. Granted, she was coming in after her daughter, but then she just stuck around after sending Adelaide home, making herself comfortable. It was like she had been here a thousand times and was an old family friend. I didn't know how to interpret her actions other than her just being invasive.  
  
        Getting straight to the point, Mom asked, "How did you get into my house?"  
  
        Constance shrugged nonchalantly, like she had done nothing wrong. "You left your back door open. Although I have to tell you, Addie will always find a way in." The older woman began walking around the room, her eyes trailing over the walls and what little decorations we had already moved in. "She has a bug up her ass about this house, always has." She let her hand skim over nearly every knickknack in her reach before smiling over at us. "You have the loveliest things," she complimented.  
  
        "Thank you," Mom accepted shortly.  
  
        "Have you got a dog?"  
  
        My brow furrowed at the sudden change in topic. It wasn't a mystery how she would have guessed, though. The back door led into the kitchen. That was where we had set up Hallie's bed, and obviously her food and water dishes were set out in there as well. What was a mystery, however, was her abrupt interest. My eyes squinted as I tried to figure out our new neighbor. There was something about her that bothered me. Something other than the pretentious air she had around her.  
  
        Mom's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I -- I do have a dog, yes," she stammered.  
  
        "I run a little kennel out of my house," Constance explained, "Doggy daycare kind of thing."  
  
        "How nice."  
  
        Constance nodded her head. "Well, I prefer purebreds. I adore the beauty of a long line, but there's always room in my homes for mongrels." Suddenly she paused and stepped towards Mom. "Oh . . . Oh, my. Look at those earrings." She reached out and gingerly touched one of Mom's earrings, smiling in admiration, while I eyed her carefully, ready to protect my mother should this woman, for whatever reason, try something. "Are those real diamonds?" She let go of the piece of jewelry and stepped back. "Not that Home Shopping shit," she concluded.  
  
        "No."  
  
        Her smile turned nostalgic. "I used to have diamonds like that. Different pair for every day of the week. Did your husband give them to you?" she asked.  
  
        Mom forced a smile. "He did."  
  
        "Hmm?" Constance sighed.  
  
        "Mm-hmm."  
  
        "They always do when you're young and pretty."  
  
        That was when I decided that it was time to change the topic. By the looks of it, I wasn't the only one who became uncomfortable when my father was brought up. Mom looked very uneasy with the conversation. Whether that was only because Ben was mentioned, albeit vaguely, or because the woman was still intruding, I didn't quite know. What I  _did_  know was that I didn't like seeing Mom so tense. She had been overwrought ever since the incident, but she was finally beginning to relax as she immersed herself in working on the new house, only to be put on edge once more by the uninvited presence of our new neighbors who just decided to drop by without permission.  
  
        So I took a deep breath and said the first thing that came to mind. "Are you Southern?"  
  
        Constance's attention was successfully drawn away from my mom and towards me. She smiled gladly. "Proud Virginian. The Old Dominion, born and raised. Thank you for noticing," she simpered, sighing and starting to walk around the room once more, a faraway look in her eyes. "I came out here to be a movie star. Did the screen tests and everything, but . . . nudity was the big deal then." She lowered herself into the armchair we had dragged in there before starting on the wallpaper. "The morals were just beginning to collapse, and I wasn't about to have my green pasture flashed seventy feet high for every man, woman, and child to see, so I took that little butterfly of a dream and put it in a jar on the shelf, and, uh, soon after, came the Mongoloid and, of course, I couldn't work after that," she finished, smiling sadly at the memory of her lost dream.  
  
        I barely managed to suppress a sigh as she delved into her tale. All I asked was a single question concerning her heritage, and she took the opportunity to relay her life story to us. Now, in addition to the irritation and uneasiness I felt towards her, I was exasperated. I just wanted her to leave. But I wasn't about to say anything. Mom had raised Violet and I to be polite, and, seeing how Mom was also present, it was up to her to say something to Constance.  
  
        Thankfully I didn't have to wait long.  
  
        Faking another smile, Mom clapped her hands together and said, "It has been  _so_  great to meet you. I just . . . you know, I wasn't prepared for guests at all." To emphasize that point, she forced a small chuckle and gestured around her to the mess around us, to the shredded strips of wallpaper and the various items strewn about that we hadn't gotten around to placing yet.  
  
        "I'm gone," Constance said with a dismissive wave of her hand, standing from the chair and glancing down to her hand. "Oh, I brought this." She held it out and passed it over to Mom's waiting grasp. "You know, a little, um, housewarming."  
  
        Holding the little wooden box in her hand, Mom nodded. "Thank you."  
  
        Constance smiled her welcome and started for the doorway. "Addie wanted to bake you a pie, but she tends to spit in the cooking, so I thought this would be better. Help get rid of some of that bad juju." Before exiting, she turned around to face us fully once more, pointing her index finger at us. "I don't remember your names," she said.  
  
        "Right, no, we never got the chance to tell you our names."  
  
        "Oh."  
  
        "My name is Vivien Harmon," Mom introduced and then, wrapping her free arm around my shoulders, added, "This is Abigail, my daughter."  
  
        Constance smiled politely. "Anyway . . . relax and enjoy. Let me know if you need any help with that pup," she requested.  
  
        "Will do."  
  
        Sparing another glance at the partially revealed mural on the walls, Constance said, "I'm glad you're getting rid of that wallpaper. I thought those people were supposed to be stylish." Either ignoring or not hearing my scoff, although Mom gave me a gentle nudge in the side with her elbow, she pointed at the antique box she handed to Mom. "It's sage . . . for cleansing the spirits in the house. Too many bad memories here," she added with a frown before walking out of the room, her heels clicking against the hardwood flooring.  
  
        Neither of us moved until we heard the kitchen door open and swing shut against its frame. As soon as we were engulfed in the absence of her presence, the both of us exhaled in heavy sighs, releasing all of the irritation and exasperation that we'd had to suppress while she was here. Her lips curled downwards, Mom looked at the box in her hands before slowly lifting the lid to reveal the sage inside. She grimaced slightly and shook her head.  
  
        Biting my lips, I peered into the box and thought about what Constance had told us. She said the sage was for the 'bad juju' in the house, and to help cleanse the spirits and the bad memories. I couldn't help but wonder if she knew more about the house than we were informed of, more than just the murder-suicide of the previous owners. She had spoken with such a pained undertone, one that I nearly missed due to it being so carefully concealed, that I had to take her seriously when she said the sage would help. I wasn't sure about the 'spirits' she mentioned, but clearly there was some bad energy still lingering around that was making me feel sick to my stomach. Perhaps the sage would actually help ease some of that via the power of suggestion.  
  
        "It . . . couldn't hurt to use that," I muttered.  
  
        Mom's eyebrows shot up in surprise as she quickly turned her eyes from the housewarming gift to look at me. "You want to use the sage? I didn't think you were superstitious, Abbie," she teased, a small grin brightening up her features.  
  
        I shook my head, folding my arms across my stomach. "I'm not, I just . . . I have a bad feeling about this place, and I think that the sage would help to ease my mind," I admitted, averting my eyes to the ground, feeling more foolish by the second.  
  
        "Don't be silly," Mom chided gently, placing the lid back on the round box and placing it next to the white China tea set. "I told you, it's just your nerves. Give it a few more days."  
  
        My eyes remained locked on the ground as I nodded my head. Sighing, I chewed the inside of my cheek and returned to the wallpaper nearest to me, taking the bladed tool and scraping it against the material. She was right. It was just my nerves. They should be settled in a few days. It was only our first official day in the house, I needed to give it more time before I turned to superstition and started using sage to 'cleanse the spirits' from the property. I was being silly about the whole thing. It was just a house.  
  
        A house which saw both a murder and a suicide in a single ownership.  
  
        After a second, I felt a hand caress the top part of my upper back, causing my eyes to lift as I turned. Mom's loving face filled my view, a gentle smile causing her lips to curl up as she looked at me with barely concealed concern. "This place really bothers you, doesn't it?" she asked softly. When I gave a hesitant nod in response, she sighed and retrieved the sealed sage, holding the antique container out to me. "Here. If it will make you feel more comfortable, you can use it around the house while I finish up in here," she told me.  
  
        I cautiously took it from her, absentmindedly rubbing my fingertips over the lid. "Are you sure?"  
  
        "Of course, if it will help ease your mind," she replied, raising her hand to tuck a stray piece of hair back behind my ear. "I just want you to be happy, Abbie, and if surrendering to superstitious beliefs about sage and spirits are what it takes, then so be it."  
  
        Her words caused a small smile of my own to spread. "I know it's silly, but . . . thank you," I murmured.  
  
        Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to the top of my head before pulling back and sending me on my way, returning to the work laid out in front of her. Clutching the concealed sage in my hands, I wandered into the kitchen in search of a lighter. Boxes still sat unpacked along the walls. Part of me expected the lighter to still be packed away in one of them, but I was lucky enough to find it just sitting out on the island and, after I took out the sage and placed the box down, used it to light the herbal cleanser. The smoke immediately billowed up and engulfed me in the strange scent. I crinkled my nose at the assault before beginning the cleansing.  
  
        I decided to do the upstairs first. More specifically, my bedroom. It was located closer to the staircase than Violet's opposite mine and our parents' at the very end of the antiquated hall. The location over the front porch allowed for a sort of outcropping, similar to the ones in the kitchen and living room, with a couple extra windows. Violet let me have this one without a fuss when we were sent up to decided which was whose once Mom and Ben picked theirs. She preferred the fewer windows in hers because it created a shroud and let her better hide away in the dark with help from her solid black curtains.  
  
        My room, for the most part, was already set up. I had spent the majority of my time yesterday getting everything situated where I liked it. Fairy lights were strung up along the lavender walls and draped over my bed -- accented by a nightstand on the right and a bookshelf on the left. To the left of the door was my desk, followed by my bathroom and then my closet. In the space from the outcropping I had just plopped down a couple of pillows and plugged in my radio for a little relaxation area. The curtains covering the windows had sashes for me to tie them back whenever I wanted to let in the sun.  
  
        Once I finished my bedroom, I started walking down the hall, using my hand to direct the smoke in certain directions. A string dangling from the ceiling then caught my attention just as I was about to turn around and head downstairs to give it the same treatment. My eyes wandered up to see the outline of the foldaway door that led up to the attic. While not nearly as affected I was by basements, I still tended to avoid attics for similar reasons, but I couldn't bring myself to keep moving forward. Something kept my feet glued to their spot and my eyes refused to leave the entrance to the attic. Finally I felt my arm lifting up and watched my fingers grip the string before giving it a tug and pulling the trap open.  
  
        The stairs folded down to land at my feet. Inhaling deeply, I followed them up into the attic, finding myself standing in a dark space with the burning sage still gripped in my hand. Squinting my eyes in an attempt to make out shapes in the darkness, I reached up with my free hand and felt for the light, tugging on the dangling string once I discovered it. The lightbulb flickered on, and I shrieked.  
  
        A black rubber suit decorated with various chains and leather straps hung from the ceiling right in front of me.  
  
        My heart pounded out a painful tattoo beneath my ribs as I stared wide-eyed at the latex body. I felt the blood in my veins turn to crawling ice before I realized that it was just a suit. A harmless, inanimate suit obviously intended to spice things up in the bedroom. As my shock wore off, I then began to laugh in disbelief, stepping forward to better observe it. The thing was creepy as hell. Who in their right minds would find  _this_  hot? Kinky, maybe, but sexy?  _No way._  
  
        My scream had attracted the immediate attention and concern of my family. Footsteps rushed across the floor and pounded up the stairs until Mom was at my side, frantically asking if I was all right. All I could do was grin and point towards my discovery. She, too, let out a short laugh, placing a hand over her mouth as she tried to stifle her amusement.  
  
        Suddenly Ben joined me on my other side, his eyes worriedly raking over me for indication of any injuries. "What happened? You okay?" My grin still in place, I just responded the same way and pointed towards the suit, watching as he turned towards it, his face turning to one of shock. "Oh, I guess these guys were into the kinky stuff, huh?" He then nudged his wife. "Would you like to try it on?" he teased.  
  
        A disgusted cringe replacing my grin, I muttered, "Ew."  
  
        If there was one thing no child liked to think about, it was their parents having sex. Ben's words just caused a plethora of images to flood into my mind. It was hard enough to look at him without picturing Hayden, but now I was going to see him dressed up in that suit. I was going to see him dressed up in that suit  _with_  Hayden. A shudder ran through me.  
  
        "That's not funny," Mom reprimanded.  
  
        Ben's grin just broadened. "I think you'd look good in it."  
  
        Another set of footsteps climbed up the steps and joined us up in the attic. "What happened?" Violet wondered before pausing upon seeing the atrocity that had been hiding away in the rafters. "Holy shit," she observed, an amused smile tugging up at her lips.  
  
        "Let's get rid of it," Mom sighed, exasperation seeping through her words, before placing a hand each on Violet's and my shoulders, "Come on, let's go downstairs. Come on. Watch the steps."  
  
        With Violet now at the bottom and Mom behind me, I spared one last glance at the BDSM suit before following after my sister, hoping there were no more unexpected surprises waiting amongst the walls of the house.


	5. Girls' Day Out

While my first official day at the house had been productive and a little strange, what with the invasion by the neighbors and that latex sex suit from the previous owners up in the attic, Violet's first day as a sophomore at Westfield High had just been bad all around.  
  
        She had already gotten into a fight. Apparently she had been smoking in the quad and this senior -- her name was Leah -- jumped her for it and even tried to force her to eat the cigarette. Violet said that she was only able to break away after she spat in the girl's mouth. As upset as I was that she had gotten into a fight, I was proud of her for not letting that girl push her around. Then again, my sister had never been the type to take anyone's crap.  
  
        Originally I had been happy that, due to me graduating at the end of my junior year, I didn't have to attend Westfield High with Violet. Now I wished I still had my senior year to go through so I could've been there to kick Leah's ass for picking on Violet. No one messed with my little sister.  
  
        Violet didn't want our parents to know what had happened and made me promise to keep it between us. She just wanted the whole thing to blow over. I could tell that it was bothering her, however, so I agreed to keeping our parents in the dark on the condition that she would let me treat her to a girl's day out and talk to me about it so she didn't just let it all simmer inside until it became too much and she just exploded.  
  
        So I hopped in the shower to freshen up. Working around the house tended to cause perspiration to bead up on my skin like morning dew on a flower. If I was taking Violet out, therefore being around other people, I wasn't going to face the world with sweat-dampened hair, sticky clothes that clung to my body, or that telltale odor that came with a day of unpacking and furnishing and redecorating. I was going to face it with my favorite vanilla-scented body wash and coconut shampoo and conditioner.  
  
        The outfit I picked out for our time together wasn't anything special. A simple pair of denim shorts and a long, red and black, plaid, button-up shirt with a pair of sandals and maybe a beanie. It was very casual, especially for me since I usually preferred to dress up a little bit more on a daily basis. But I had been working hard alongside Mom all day and figured I deserved to slack off a bit with some comfortable clothes.  
  
        I had my radio turned up and delivering Journey's famous _Don't Stop Believin'_  while I moved about my room in only a towel. Then the towel was dropped and pooled at my bare feet as I slipped on my black lingerie. I murmured along to the lyrics, keeping my voice at a low hum so as not to be heard by anyone else.  
  
        " _A singer in a smoky room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume_ ," I crooned, grabbing my shirt from the foot of my bed and pulling my arms through the sleeves. " _For a smile they can share the night, and it goes on and on and on and on._ " Leaving my shirt unbuttoned and letting it fall open, the fabric brushing against my bare thighs, I turned around and yelped sharply. "What the hell are you doing in here?!"  
  
        Leaning against the doorframe, with the door now wide open for anyone to peek in and see, was a boy with a curly mop of blonde hair hanging wildly over his dark eyes. He had on a black and green striped shirt with long sleeveless with ripped jeans and a pair of faded Chucks -- a grungy, Kurt Cobain type of style. His features were soft as he let his eyes wander around the room before bringing them back to me.  
  
        My face couldn't have burned any hotter than it was right now. If I focused, I was sure I would see the tip of my nose glowing a bright red. I hurriedly grabbed the sides of my shirt and tugged them together to hide my state of undress. I didn't know how long he had been standing there or how much he had seen of me, but I wasn't about to give him a free show. The only thing visible to him now were my legs.  
  
        The boy smirked like he was amused and wrapped his hand around the doorknob. "You may want to try locking the door next time," he suggested, turning the lock himself before pulling the door shut behind him as he left.  
  
        Journey continued on in the background while I just stared dumbly at the wood. I had trouble processing what in the hell had just happened. My door had been closed. It hadn't been locked because we had never had an issue with someone just walking in on us before. I hadn't even heard him open the door, and that door squeaked a little every time it moved on its hinges. He could've been there from the moment I dropped my towel for all I knew.  
  
        Blinking, I took a deep breath to try and get some of the heat pooling in my cheeks to dissipate, moving my hands to button up my shirt. My mind began racing, trying to place his face. I was certain I had never seen him before. He was a complete stranger to me. Why was he even in our house?  
  
        Then it hit me. Ben was seeing his patients in his office. He was actually just in a session when I got into the shower. That boy must have been who he was with. The session must have ended.  
  
       I couldn't help but grow a little irritated. Ben should see his patients out, not let them wander the house when they're done. Clearly not all of them headed straight for the door when they were dismissed from their psychology sessions. He was definitely going to hear about  _that_  little mishap before Violet and I went out.  
  
        My mind kept going back to the boy while I finished getting dressed. I couldn't deny that he was attractive. At least not truthfully. That had only made it worse for me. He had looked to be around my age, too. I wondered why, if I was correct with my assumption, he was seeing my father. Surely it couldn't have been some major mental disorder -- he seemed pretty normal to me, putting aside what had just happened.  
  
        Applying a light layer of makeup, I studied myself in the mirror. I was pretty average. A rounded face held two almond-shaped orbs of green, a small and slightly upturned nose, and naturally pink lips with a defined cupid's bow. My hair was dark brown and fell down to my shoulders, but my bangs, which were cut across my forehead, curled up underneath and hung just above my eyes. My looks really weren't anything special, and the longer I stared at my reflection, the more I questioned why that boy had seemed amused when I caught him.  
  
        Was I not what he was expecting? Were my looks not up to his expectations? Was he expecting some girl whose face belonged in magazines or movies?  
  
        Scowling, I shook those thoughts out of my head. Who cares what he thought of me? It wasn't like that was going to be a common occurrence. Though we might see each other often, what with him being my father's patient and all . . . Part of me actually wanted to see him again. The other part of me, the part that I knew I should listen to, wanted to avoid any and all contact with him from here on out.  
  
        I knocked on Violet's door before entering. The fifteen year old was lounging on her bed, her earphones plugged into her ears and a textbook laid out in front of her, her phone beside her. She didn't look up. Her music was probably blocking out every other sound around her.  
  
        My hand gently grazed her shoulder, and she flinched, her body jerking around to look at me with startled eyes. Upon realizing it was me, the tension left her body and she sighed, reaching up to remove her earphones. Her lips curled into a frown as she said, "You scared the hell out of me, Abbie. Announce your presence next time, please?"  
  
        I smiled a little and rolled my eyes. "I knocked. It's not my fault you want to go deaf before you're thirty." Extending my arm, I grabbed the front of her book -- it looked like Geometry -- and shut it. "Now come on, we're going out," I reminded her.  
  
        She groaned and peered up at me pleadingly. "Can't we just hang out here? Watch movies or some shit?"  
  
        "That wasn't the deal, Vi." I lightly slapped her leg. "Come on, get moving." Her chest heaved and fell with a deep sigh as she reluctantly swung her legs over the side of the bed, her eyes narrowed halfheartedly at me, causing me to give her a smile as I then started back towards her door. "I'll be waiting downstairs. Don't be too long, I'd like time to actually do something before it gets too late."  
  
        Her only response was a huff. It wasn't until I had closed her door behind me that the springs of her mattress creaked as she lifted herself off of the bed. I rolled my eyes. She had more attitude than should have been able to be contained within a slim, five-foot-four frame. Violet had always had that stereotypical demeanor one thought of when it came to teenagers. It was just hard to believe how bad it could get. I mean, I was fifteen barely two years ago, and I couldn't remember ever being like that unless I was having a bad day.  
  
        Most people didn't believe we were sisters. We were complete opposites in just about everything. Violet was more conservative, covering her still developing body with long layers and dark colors, whereas I wasn't afraid to model a tank top and shorts, and preferred the lighter end of the color spectrum. We didn't even look alike. She favored Mom's side of the family with her dark blonde hair. I looked more like Ben, the dark brown hair of the Harmon side of the family having been passed on to me. It was our eyes that made people realize we did share some blood. Hers took on more of a hazel undertone than my solid greens, both differing wildly from the shades of blue carried by both of our parents, but they came from the same place. Our grandmother. Violet and I had been close to her before she passed a few years ago. But every time I looked in a mirror, or looked at Violet, I was reminded of her and the good memories she provided us.  
  
        With a quiet sigh, I shook my head and started for the staircase, hoping that Violet wouldn't take a long time just to spite me because I blackmailed her into this outing. It was something I could see her doing. The two of us may have shared a bond that even I couldn't fully comprehend, but she was still just, as she liked to put it, a pissy teenager. She probably thought she wasn't going to enjoy our time together considering we liked completely different activities. She preferred locking herself away in her room and blasting her music while reading a Gothic novel. My preferences leaned more towards walking around the mall with friends or taking a walk in the park when the weather was nice. I was going to have to find something that we would both enjoy in order for this to be the pleasurable excursion I was hoping it to be.  
  
        Perhaps I would take her to check out a local book store so she could find some new reading material, or a music store that sold her type of tunes. Maybe we could see what movies were playing down at the theater. There must have been some good horror flicks showing that she'd find interesting. Then maybe once the sun started setting, I could treat us to some ice cream or some other sweet that would hopefully help open her up to me. That was really the whole point of this day. I wanted to spend some quality time with my little sister and just have a normal conversation with her. I wanted her to talk to me, tell me about the problems she was facing, vent about the move and her new school -- I just wanted _something_.  
  
        While we were out around town I could probably start looking for a job, too. Back in Boston I had worked part-time, considering I was still in school, as a cashier at a local market, eventually moving to full-time after I graduated. Obviously I'd had to quit that job when we moved, but I still had a lot of money saved up. It was going towards my college education once I could afford to go to a good school, but I figured dipping into it just a little couldn't hurt. I'd just be on the lookout for available work so I could replenish my savings.  
  
        Hopping off of the last step, I peeked into the kitchen to see Ben pouring himself another cup of coffee. Appearance wasn't the only thing that I had inherited from my father. We also shared a love for the bitter grounded bean that bordered on addiction. I got that delicious high just from smelling it as it brewed in the morning. Pursing my lips, I allowed my leather sandals to fall heavily on the linoleum, announcing my presence to the only other being in the room.  
  
        Before he could react to my initial entrance, I let my irritation from earlier spill over and directed it towards the man responsible. "Hey, could you maybe _not_ let your patients wander around the house after your sessions? I prefer getting dressed without an audience."  
  
        His eyebrows drew together in confusion at my words. "Whoa, what?"  
  
        "One of your patients walked in on me, Ben," I reiterated tersely, crossing my arms over my chest. "He caught me in practically nothing." Ignoring the rush of heat that tried to flood my cheeks at the memory, I huffed out an irritated breath and glared at my father. "Start seeing your patients to the door or something, don't just let them wander around when they're done."  
  
        "I don't let them wander, I walk them out," Ben defended, a frown pulling down at his features. "I saw Tate out myself, Abbie."  
  
        So that was his name. Tate. Pulling up his face in my mind, the brief attention I gave all the finer details, I found that the name rather suited him. His mother did a good job picking out a name for him when he was born. But . . . Ben said he walked Tate out, so maybe that wasn't who I caught watching me. It couldn't have been Tate, not if Ben saw him leave. So, who was it?  
  
        Confusion accompanying my irritation, I huffed and asked, "Then who the hell was it, Ben? I caught _someone_ peeking on me. Shaggy blonde hair, dressed like Kurt Cobain . . . around my age. Any of your whack jobs match that description?"  
  
        Usually I would have refrained from referring to Ben's patients as _whack jobs_. I was normally very respectful, courtesy of being raised right by my parents, but I also tended to let my mouth get away from me at times. Courtesy of my mother. Especially when I was agitated or upset about something. I knew that just because someone was seeing a psychiatrist it didn't mean that they were mentally unstable. Sometimes it was just about having someone to vent to, someone to share your problems with, having someone to listen while you talked.  
  
        Ben's frown deepened as I described the boy who had walked in on me. "That does sound like Tate . . . but there's no way he could have done it. I walked him to the door, Abbie, I saw him leave," he insisted.  
  
        So it _was_ Tate. Then how did he get back in the house if Ben watched him leave? It wasn't like he climbed back in through a window or something. Well . . . he _was_ one of Ben's patients, so perhaps he was disturbed enough to do that. But the question in that was why he would bother. What had he been wanting?  
  
        My frown deepened as a morbid curiosity slightly overrode my initial agitation at the situation. I didn't understand why I cared so much. It wasn't as though I knew the boy. That had been the first time I'd ever met him. If _met_ was even the correct way to describe the incident. He probably didn't even know my name. Maybe some other time . . .  
  
         _No_ , I reprimanded myself. _He's your father's patient_. My mental eyes rolled. _And you don't even know the kid_.  
  
        Shaking my head, I cleared those thoughts away and focused back on my father, who was clearly troubled by what I had told him. I sighed and opened my mouth to say something else, to ask him to make sure that his patients leave the property, but I was interrupted before a single syllable could roll from my tongue.  
  
        "We going out or what?" Violet asked, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the doorway. "I gotta study for a test next week."  
  
        My eyes moved over to my sister. I was surprised to see that she had actually changed clothes for the evening. She had swapped her red dress, beige shirt, and black boots for a cream sweater, light green jacket, and brown ankle boots. Her black fedora and leggings were still in place. Strapped over her shoulder was her bag that she usually kept her wallet and keys in, plus whatever novel she was currently reading.  
  
        Her eyebrows arched up as she awaited my answer. "Well? You wanted to do this, Abbie, so let's get it over with," she stated.  
  
        I once again found myself rolling my eyes at her attitude. "Your enthusiasm is heartwarming," I remarked flatly before walking towards her. "Come on, let's head out." My eyes briefly darted back to Ben. "Tell Mom we'll be back before nine." He merely nodded his head, his eyebrows still tugged together, and I placed a hand on Violet's shoulder. "Now what's this about a test? It's your first day!" I exclaimed. A groan immediately emitted from her, causing me to laugh as I grabbed my clutch and fished my keys out before slinging it over my shoulder.  
  
        She launched into a story about how she already had so much to do. Starting in the middle of the semester had not been beneficial to her, as I had predicted. Apparently she had to make up a Geometry test next week, a Language Arts essay due the following week, and a huge group project in World History to present at the end of the semester that was worth more than their final. She had only gone one day and she was already swamped with schoolwork. It didn’t seem fair. It _wasn’t_ fair. Westfield High should ease up. It was only the girl’s first day, for crying out loud!  
  
        We had pulled out of the driveway and were already halfway to town when she finished her rant with a huff. As I braked at a red light, I commented, “I’m sure it’ll get easier, Vi, and I’m always here if you need help. With anything.”  
  
        Although I didn’t elaborate, I knew she caught my meaning. Her head turned slightly to stare out the window. I remained quiet, waiting for her to speak first, not wanting to push her into talking about something she didn’t want to and potentially drive her away from me. Our bond was one that had lasted through so much, and she and Mom were already growing apart -- I didn’t want the same thing to happen to us. I was going to let her come to me about her problems.  
  
        Violet sighed and shook her head. “I’m fine.”  
  
        Like I believed that. But I was not going to push her. That was the last thing I wanted to do. So I just accepted her statement at face value and changed the subject. “So, what do you want to do tonight?”


	6. Taint

Violet never did open up to me during our outing. But she had seemed to enjoy herself, so I was pleased at how our night had turned out.  
  
        We had gone to the theater and ended up watching _Don't Be Afraid of the Dark_. While I preferred the classic horror flicks, like Wes Craven's _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ or John Carpenter's _Halloween_ , I had to admit that the show hadn't been too bad. At least it didn't have the gore that all of today's horror movies tended to focus on and overdo. Violet had seemed really into it. Her eyes had been glued to the screen the entire time.  
  
        After the movie had finished, I took her to a nearby bookshop, where she spent almost a full half hour just browsing the shelves before actually looking for one she wanted. That took another twenty minutes. Then she got torn between two books that she had been wanting since their announced release. Not wanting to be in the store the whole night, and already having scored an application from the front, I just bought both of them for her. I don't think I had ever seen her so openly grateful to me.  
  
        Then before we headed home for the night, I swung by and stopped at this cute little ice cream parlor that was on the way, deciding that we deserved a treat. Since Mom was into all the organic and health stuff, we rarely had a chance to divulge our love for sweets, so I figured it was as good an evening as any since it was just the two of us. They had the best ice cream I had ever tasted since Violet and I made our own with Mom's sister -- her name was Julia, but we had always called her Aunt Jo -- back up in Boston. It would have been a perfect night out with my sister had I not ended up losing my grip on the cone and spilling the frozen dairy all down my front.  
  
        Violet had thought it amusing, but she was not the one who had to drive the rest of the way home with ice cream all over her, feeling it drying and sticking to her clothes and skin. I had not been very happy about that part of the night.  
  
        Now, however, smile lifted the corners of my lips at the delightful aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. There wasn't a sweeter scent than that of the perfect blend of sugar and flour baking away in the oven. My eyes closed as I inhaled deeply, taking in and savoring the pleasurable smell, feeling my mouth water as my brain registered the whiff. Just a couple more minutes until I would be able to bite into one without burning my tongue.  
  
        Ben had been right when he'd told Marcy that I loved baking. It was my favorite hobby, but it was not a tidy one. I always made such a mess. The kitchen always turned out looking like a flour bomb had exploded, and I was always caught in the blast. It normally took me forever to clean up after myself. One would think I would learn to be a little more organized or careful, but I had just come to accept that I was a messy baker, and that was why I would never get a job as a professional one.  
  
        Pursing my lips, I folded my arms and glanced down at myself, sighing at the state of my clothes. My fashionably destroyed denim jeans had small specks of white that almost blended in with the ripped threads. Some had been flicked up onto my navy blue blouse, trimmed with lace and hanging off the shoulder with two straps to hold it up. The skin between the hem of my jeans and my top, which was the area from the bottom of my navel to a couple inches above it, was dusted in the same powder. With a frown, I used my thumb to wipe at my necklace, pleased when the golden circle inscribed with the first letter of my name remained free of flour.  
  
        I raised my eyes and peered out of the window above the sink to check on my mother. She had gone out a while ago to hang out the sheets to dry. She preferred drying them naturally so they wouldn't be doused in all the chemicals that electrical dryers apparently produced. My eyebrows rose when I noticed she was talking with someone. It was another woman. From where I was watching, she looked to be more on the elderly side of the age line, with distinctly red hair pulled up atop her head and a long black peacoat. She wasn't someone I had seen around the neighborhood in the short time that we'd been there. But perhaps she was a neighbor that had just been waiting for us to get a little more settled before introducing herself.  
  
  
        It looked like Mom was enjoying herself with the stranger. Maybe this was the start of a friendship for her. Mom deserved to have someone to talk to, someone other than her daughter who just happened to be stuck in the middle of everything. Much like Violet and I, she'd had to leave behind all her fellow cellists back in Boston, and she seemed not to have interest in taking up the cello as neither a hobby nor a profession anytime soon.  
  
        Times like these really made me wish my grandmother was still alive. Grandma Mary had always known the right thing to do or say in just about every situation. Mom said that was because she had gone through so much in her life that she found it easy to advise others on how to handle their own issues. I just chalked it up to the fact that she had been a psychologist back in the early sixties at Briarcliff Manor, a mental institution in Boston that had been shut down in the early seventies and now lay in ruins, a popular place to dare friends to adventure or stay at for the night.  
  
        That manor was actually where she met my grandfather. He had been falsely accused and incarcerated in there until she helped prove his innocence with the help of Lana Winters, the journalist responsible for shutting down the institution, and sprung for his release upon the death of the actual culprit. Grandpa had been married at the time, though, but his wife died a few years after his release. Grandma helped him look after his two children, and then some years later, they got married and had Mom. Lana was named the godmother of all three and helped Grandma raise them when Grandpa was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at forty and disappeared without a trace from the hospital.  
  
        Neither she nor Lana, who kept in contact with Mom over the years and would call on our birthdays and other special occasions, would explain what had happened to him even though I was positive that they knew. But that was them; they didn't particularly enjoy delving into their pasts, and after a while I had stopped asking. Then Grandma fell ill and died two years ago in Boston. It hit the family hard, but Lana and Mom's siblings had been there to help us through the loss that we had all felt. Aunt Jo and Uncle Tommy -- his given name was Thomas -- still lived back in Boston, but Lana had moved to Los Angeles shortly following the closure of Briarcliff.  
  
        I made a mental note to call her and set up a lunch date. Lana's advice was nearly as good as Grandma Mary's had been. Perhaps she would be able to tell me what to do. Or maybe she could help Mom get out and socialize since she'd pretty much shut herself inside since the incident.  
  
        My thoughts were interrupted by Hallie suddenly scrambling from her bed and pitching a fit. She was barking and growling, and the fur along her back had risen. I looked to see what had gotten her dog so riled. The back door swung open and in walked my mother followed by the woman. Now that she was closer, I could see that her eyes were a little different. The left one was a light blue, but the right one was milky and cloudy, like it had been damaged.  
  
        "Enough, Hallie," I shushed, snapping my fingers at the tiny dog to get my point across. "It's fine, you're okay."  
  
        Hallie growled once more before emitting a quiet whimper of obedience. She slowly lowered herself back down onto her bed. Her head came to rest on her front paws, but her eyes never once left the strange woman now standing inside our kitchen.  
  
        Mom sighed and rolled her eyes, shutting the door behind her. "Sorry about that. She thinks she's so ferocious," she apologized, a small laugh following her words.  
  
        The woman smiled gently. "All small dogs do," she said.  
  
        The corners of my mouth upturned a little at the observation. That was probably the truest thing that could be said about the smaller breeds of canines. They definitely thought they were bigger and badder than they actually were. The perfect example of that was Hallie. She was such a sweetheart, but when confronted with what she assumed to be a challenge or a threat, she acted like she could outdo any rottweiler out there. Like her little yaps would actually faze any intruders.  
  
        "Moira, this is my first born Abigail," Mom introduced as she came further into the kitchen. "Abbie, this is Moira O'Hara." She picked up a cookie from the tray, gesturing from me to the woman I now knew as Moira. "She was the housekeeper for the previous owners."  
  
        Surprise briefly flickered through me. After what had happened to the couple who had owned the house before us, I couldn't understand why their housekeeper had returned. I would have thought she wouldn't want anything more to do with the place. However, I just sent the older woman a smile and said, "Nice to meet you, Miss O'Hara."  
  
        The woman waved a hand. "Please, call me Moira, dear," she insisted.  
  
        My smile turned a bit nostalgic. Her tone made me think of my grandmother. I was willing to be Moira had a few grandchildren of her own. The woman just seemed like the type to tuck her grandchildren into bed and made sure they ate a good meal before they were sent back home with their parents. Much like Grandma Mary had been.  
  
        "Abbie, honey," Mom spoke, covering her mouth with her hand until she swallowed the piece of cookie she had bitten off, "would you please finish hanging up those sheets while I make sure Moira gets her cab?"  
  
        Suppressing a sigh, I nodded my head. "Yeah, I got it." Mom thanked me as I snatched up a cookie of my own on my way out. "It was nice meeting you, Miss -- Moira," I added before I walked out the back door.  
  
        As soon as I was outside, I shut the door behind me and slipped off my grey flip flops with light gold straps, eager to feel the grass between my toes. Roughly about half of the sheets had been pinned up already, leaving only about ten or so for me to spread out along the lines. I shoved the cookie in my mouth, holding it firmly between my teeth, and grabbed the first sheet, tossing it over the clothesline and smoothing out the creases before pegging it with the clothespins sitting by the laundry basket.  
  
        After taking the time to properly eat the treat, briefly pausing to savor the sweet cacophony of flavors, I reached down for another sheet when I stopped, my hand hovering inches above the fabric. Another hand hovered at about the same height. A hand that wasn't mine. My eyebrows furrowed, but I didn't yet look up, my mind working to try and figure out who it might be. It was more masculine, ruling out Mom and Violet, but I knew it wasn't Ben because he was currently in his office seeing a patient. This was the hand of someone not in my family.  
  
        I finally allowed my eyes to travel from the hand and up the arm of the brown sweater. They came to rest on a familiar face. Curly blonde hair, dark brown eyes. A grin that created two obvious dimples on either side. The corners of my mouth twitched into a frown. What the hell was he doing?  
  
        "Tate," I greeted coolly, knocking his hand aside to grab the sheet. "I hope you enjoyed the free show yesterday." I spread the sheet out over the line. "'Cause the exhibit has closed indefinitely."  
  
        When I reached for the pins, he was already holding them in his hand, outstretched towards me. He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I was just passing by, I didn't mean to peek on you."  
  
        Remembering what Ben had told me, I eyed him in distrust, slowly accepting the clothespins from him. That was some bullshit right there. If he hadn't meant to peek on me, he would have kept walking, _not_ stopped and waited for me to notice him before shutting my door. And that didn't even cover the part where he had supposedly already left the house.  
  
        My lips pursed as I used the pins to peg the sheet. "Why are you here?" I asked flatly, hoping to convey my displeasure at his presence.  
  
        "I have an appointment with Dr. Harmon soon," he answered. When I nodded and reached down to grab the last remaining sheet in the basket, he beat me to it. "Here, let me."  
  
        Before I could object, he had tossed and pinned it to the line, free of all wrinkles. His grin returned when he looked at me. He rocked slightly on his feet and shoved his hands into his pockets. My mouth twitched as I debated on how to handle this. On the one hand, I didn't particularly want anything to do with him, considering he had peeked in on me getting dressed. But on the other hand, he didn't have to help me with the sheet, yet he did it anyway and without giving me a chance to protest his assistance.  
  
        Another look at his dimpled grin, and I caved. I muttered, "Thanks."  
  
        "No problem," he returned easily. "So how are you liking the west coast so far?" When I didn't respond, just stood there with an arched brown, his smile fell and he added, "I mean . . . You're from Boston, right? Things must be a _little_ different here than what you're used to."  
  
        He was right about that. Los Angeles was very different from back home. But I hadn't yet decided if the differences were good or bad. The weather was taking some time to get used to. While it was nice and sunny, and I appreciated that I could wear some of my summer clothes even this close to autumn, I did miss the alternating temperatures of Massachusetts. I was just more accustomed to that climate than this one. Then there was the way of speech. My family had a different dialect than they did in California, and it almost made me feel foreign, but I supposed it also made us a bit unique to the area.  
  
        Seeing Tate cast down his eyes, a twinge of guilt made me sigh inwardly. All he had done was ask me a question. Peeping Tom or not, there was no harm in answering it, and to me, it kind of seemed like he was trying to make up for what had happened before. Something in me just tugged when I saw the almost disheartened expression on his face.  
  
        Sighing quietly, I said, "Well, Boston actually has weather, so . . ." I trailed off as I cleared my throat.  
  
        At the sound of my voice, his eyes lifted back up to my face. A small smile lit up his face. It was nowhere as big or happy as the grin he'd previously been wearing, but it was enough for the small amount of guilt I was feeling to dissipate. I mustered a small one of my own.  
  
        A moment of silence fell around us. Clearing my throat, I bent down and picked up the laundry basket, balancing it on my hip. Lightly biting my lip, I offered hesitantly, "Would you like to come inside . . . to wait for your appointment?"  
  
        It felt wrong to just leave him waiting around outside while I went in. Even if I was going to be heading out to turn in my application to that bookshop. At least he'd be comfortable while Ben finished up with his current patient. Though part of me was wondering why I was being so nice to him when I should have been angry or even too embarrassed to face him after what had happened. And that was a question to which I really had no answer. Maybe it was because he was around my age or seemed like a nice enough boy, and I was able to look past that one discretion.  
  
        Or maybe it had something to do with those cute dimples.  
  
         _Abigail Ruth Harmon, stop that!_  
  
        Either not noticing or just ignoring the rush of color that flooded my cheeks at my thoughts, Tate shook his head slightly. "No, that's all right. I'll just hang around out here until it's time."  
  
        "You sure?" I asked uncertainly, shifting my weight from foot to foot.  
  
        He nodded. "Yeah. It's cool."  
  
        "Well, okay then. If you're sure."  
  
        I started heading for the house and had just bent down to grab my flip flops when his voice called after me, "You know, it isn't really fair that you know my name when I don't know yours."  
  
        Spinning around, shoes in hand, I felt myself smile at the lopsided grin that had spread across his face. "Abbie," I returned before turning back around and opening the door.  
  
        After putting up the laundry basket and placing the cookies in the refrigerator to store for later, I headed back out into town to turn in that application. All that was left was to wait for a call for an interview to be set up. If they liked me, that is, and the older woman at the counter assured me that she didn't see any reason as to why they wouldn't. Mom gave me a call on my way out of the shop to ask me to stop by the market and pick up some extra groceries that we needed for the week. She promised to pay me back. I was going to agree to her request anyway, but I wasn't going to turn down the compensation either.  
  
        Roughly an hour had passed before I was pulling back up in the drive. That same uneasy feeling I got when I had pulled up to the house for the very first time once again made its home in the pit of my stomach. My skin prickled with the sense of being watched. I glanced around me, hoping to see one of the neighbors looking this way, before moving my eyes back to the brick structure looming in front of me when there was no one. Even though I knew there were at least three people inside, my parents and my sister, the house seemed empty from the outside. There was no movement in the windows or anything on the exterior suggesting a new family had moved in recently. If anything, it just seemed abandoned, like those old buildings in paranormal movies that have the gateway to Hell in their basement.  
  
        An involuntary shiver ran down my spine as I made the connection between my new house and the house from _Amityville Horror_. If I kept thinking like that, I wasn't going to be able to get any sleep at night. I didn't even matter if I didn't believe in ghosts. Two people had died before the house had gone on the market again. That coupled with my analogy of the infamous haunted house on Long Island was enough to put foolish thoughts in my head if I let it.  
  
        As I shut the car door, grocery bags in hand, I caught movement in my peripheral vision. It came from the upper level of the house in front of one of the windows of the outcropping that overlooked the porch. My eyes traveled up to see a figure sitting between the tied back curtains. I was able to make out a brown sweater and a wild mop of blonde curls.  
  
        Tate was in my room.  
  
        My earlier friendliness towards the teenage boy quickly dissipating, I rushed inside and dumped the groceries on the island. Violet frowned at my hurry, pausing mid-bite as she worked on a small plate of cookies, but before she could say anything, I was brushing past her and muttering, "Put these away for Mom, okay? Thanks."  
  
        As I started up the stairs, I was torn between taking care of Tate straight away or confronting Ben about the whole not letting his patients wander the house after their sessions situation. I couldn't decide which guy I was more put out with. On the one hand, Tate clearly had some boundary issues, as in he didn't grasp the concept of boundaries or personal space. On the other hand, I didn't know why he was seeing my father, and Ben had clearly been too busy to see him out this time. Not that it did too much the last time.  
  
        My mind was made up when my feet hit the landing and turned me to the left. I grabbed the knob and twisted, pushing the wooden door open to reveal exactly what I wanted to see. Or, rather, what I _didn't_ want to see.  
  
        "What the hell are you doing in here?!" I demanded.  
  
        Tate turned his head to look at me. "Oh. Hey, Abbie," he greeted nonchalantly, like he wasn't currently in my bedroom without invitation.  
  
        My eyes widened in disbelief when his head turned back around. His body jerked slightly with small movements as a scratching noise permeated the air. I stared at him, unable to wrap my head around his behavior. First he walked in on me getting dressed, and then he helped me with the laundry, and now he was just hanging out in my bedroom. He was making himself at home like it was his bedroom instead of mine.  
  
        My jaw clenched as my irritation rose. "Why the fuck are you in my room?"  
  
        The scratching noises stopped as Tate's dark eyes found mine. His lopsided grin created a solitary dimple on his right cheek. "You have a mouth on you, you know that?" At my unamused glare, he wiped off his smirk and sighed. "It's not cool, I know, but I used to hang out in here when this place was empty. I just missed it," he said. He gave a sort of shrug and averted his gaze.  
  
        Something in his words, the way he spoke them, made me feel almost sorry for him. My heart twinged just a bit at the saddened tone. It almost felt like I was just the bully who had stolen his safe haven from him and claimed it as my own. Still, I frowned and said firmly, "You need to leave now, Tate."  
  
        "What's that scar on your wrist?"  
  
        The question shocked me into a brief silence. It was so random, yet the way his dark eyes flicked from my left arm and back up to my face told me it was anything but. And the concern I was reading on his face seemed so genuine. I wasn't sure which part surprised me more: how abruptly and out of the blue he had asked, or how he had noticed in the first place.  
  
        I blinked. "I'm sorry?"  
  
        He inclined his head towards my arm, which I had instinctively brought closer to my body, the inside of my wrist almost cradled to my chest as if hiding from his cautious gaze. "What's it from?" he asked softly, his eyes glinting with curiosity. When I just stared back at him, unsure of how to answer, he sighed and gripped the sleeve of his sweater before pushing it up his arm to reveal multiple scars, pink and puckered slightly yet hardened with age, lining the inside of his forearm. He pointed to one of the fainter ones. "This one I did after my dad left. I was ten, I think," he shared, running his finger along the line. His eyes didn't raise again to look at me after he spoke.  
  
        A small lump formed in my throat. To think he had done that to himself when he was ten. He hadn't even been in junior high yet. And there were so many that followed, and I was willing to bet his other arm was in the same condition. Lowering my arm, I looked down at my own wrist, eyeing the single line that ran across the width. It was my only self-inflicted scar, and the shame I felt every time I gave it any notice was monumental. It was a moment of weakness that I regretted and knew I would never revisit -- it hurt way too damn much to do again; having tried it, I didn't see the appeal.  
  
        Swallowing, I raised my eyes and slowly made my way over to where Tate sat, perching myself on the outcropping next to him. For some strange reason I felt compelled to share with Tate the story behind my scar. I couldn't even begin to describe why I felt the need to tell him, a complete stranger, what I had never told anybody else before. Not even Mom or Violet. Especially not them. They were the last people I would ever inform of my lapse in strength and judgement.  
  
        "About a year ago, my dad cheated on my mom with one of his students. She literally caught him in the act," I muttered, afraid that someone else would hear me sharing the dysfunction of our family.  
  
        "That's horrible," Tate sympathized, making my eyes raise from my skin to him, his lips pulled into a frown. "If you love someone, you should never hurt them. Ever." I just nodded my head in agreement. "So, is that why you moved here?"  
  
        "Yeah," I sighed, lightly biting my lips. "We moved all the way across the country just so they could have a fresh start." I forced myself to look away from his concerned eyes and picked at my nails. "Great in theory, I guess, but . . . it's not going well so far."  
  
        My mind was screaming at me. What the hell was I doing? This boy had broken into my room twice, had invaded my personal space without my permission, and there I was, sharing things with him that either belonged within my family or that nobody else knew because I had decided to keep it to myself. I didn't understand why I felt compelled to talk with him. But I wasn't going to deny that it was nice to finally get these things off my chest. It was liberating to finally talk about these with someone who listened, who actually seemed to care. For once, I didn't feel like I had to be the strong one, even if it was only for a little while.  
  
        Tate's hand suddenly settled over mine, his fingers gently wrapping around it until he was holding my hand, applying slight pressure. "I'm sorry," he spoke. Nothing in his voice suggested he wasn't being genuine, and when I lifted my eyes to search his face, I found no trace of insincerity.  
  
        His soft touch sent a tingle down the length of my spine. My nerves suddenly spiked until a bundle of them settled in my stomach and gave the sensation of butterfly wings flapping against the walls. I felt heat creep up the back of my neck and pool in my cheeks.  
  
        Clearing my throat, I slipped my hand from his and stood up, running both hands through my hair. "So, why are you seeing Ben?" I blurted in a desperate attempt to change the subject. I didn't realize until the question was out of my mouth that it was insensitive and rude.  
  
        He didn't seem to mind. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're smarter than that, Abbie," he chided playfully.  
  
        I felt myself smile at the dramatic change in his tone, but that smile dropped into a pronounced frown a stern voice spoke from behind me. "What are you doing in here?"  
  
        Tate's face fell as his eyes fell on the person standing in the doorway. I turned around to see Ben. Rolling my eyes, I defended, "Relax, we were just talking.  
  
        Ben gave me a look before turning to Tate. "You need to leave, Tate. I'm sorry." At my scoff, he turned back to me. "He shouldn't be in here, and I think you know that. Please," he added to Tate. The boy stood from his spot and walked over to us.  
  
        He brushed past me and paused when he was in front of Ben. "What's that thing you think I'm afraid of? Fear of rejection?" he challenged, causing my father to avert his eyes from his patient, almost shamefully.  
  
        I didn't know what that meant, although I supposed it was something they had discussed in one of his sessions. Somehow that only made my irritation at Ben spike. Tate shot me one last look before disappearing down the hall. Only a second had passed before his voice carried back to us, shouting and upset, although I couldn't make out what was being said. My lips pursed as I stared back at Ben.  
  
        "Stay away from him," he ordered sternly.  
  
        "We didn't do anything, if that's what you're so uptight about," I argued.  
  
        Ben sighed. "Abbie, please. Just stay away from him."  
  
        I shook my head defiantly. "Not until I have a good reason. He seems like a nice person, Ben, and if I want to see him I will," I said.  
  
        Tate did seem like a nice person. He was actually sweet. I wanted to see him again, and I'd be damned if Ben was going to forbid me from seeing him. Besides, he was a psychologist; he should know that telling someone, especially a teenager, to not do something just makes them more determined to do that thing.  
  
        "You heard me, Abigail!" he snapped. "Stay away from that boy!"  
  
        I watched as Ben gave me one final look before leaving. His sudden need to be a good father again didn't sit well with me. It was bratty, I knew that very well, but I was determined to prove to him that he couldn't just pretend to care about what I did with my life. He stopped caring when he had an affair. I was going to prove to him that he couldn't control me.  
  
        With a sigh, I wandered back over to my windows, plopping down amongst the pillows I had thrown on there. When my hand grazed something rough, I frowned and looked down, seeing something etched into the wood. That must have been what Tate was doing. Those scratching noises must have been him carving something into my window sill. It was a simple word, just one in all capital letters, but somehow it seemed to sum everything up.  
  
         _Taint_.


	7. Sinister

**Warning: Forced sexual content.**

* * *

  
I wish I could say that Ben forbidding me from seeing Tate was the last eventful part of the day. At least, I wish I could say it truthfully. But I couldn't. Unfortunately, the excitement continued. It came in the form of a girl with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and distinctly spaced facial features.  
  
        Adelaide had found her way inside the house again. Her unexpected presence had come as quite a shock to me. A little bit after my fight with my father, after I had calmed down some and no longer felt like throwing a tantrum just because he was trying to resume his protective role, I had descended the stairs with the goal of retrieving a glass of ice cold lemonade. The kitchen had been vacant. Violet had retreated to her bedroom for isolation, Mom was reading in the living room, and Ben had locked himself in his office. It was as though I was completely alone.  
  
        My head and upper torso had been inside the cool interior of the refrigerator, my hand busy moving different items in my search for the lemonade, when a series of popping sounds met my ears. I had stepped back and turned around to find the cabinets open. Every single one of them. Some still swung slightly from the movement. The blood pumping through my veins had run cold and a chill rattled its way down the length of my spine. My mind searched for a reasonable explanation, but there were none that would constitute all of the cabinets open in unison from what appeared to be an invisible force.  
  
        If that wasn't enough to unnerve me, the chilling laughter that followed the strange event was. I let out a small shriek as I whipped around to face the culprit behind it. My heart raced even upon realizing it was only the girl from next door. Her eyes were scrunched up as she continued laughing at something behind me, which I knew from how she raised her arm and extended her index finger to point over my shoulder. But when I turned my head to see what was so amusing to her, there was nothing there.  
  
        Constance had come over to retrieve her daughter just as Mom and Ben had come into the kitchen. Addie claimed that it was 'the twins' who opened the cabinets. I didn't know who she was talking about, but it was enough to solidify my unease about the house. Then on their way out, Addie had crouched to pet Hallie, and her hand was the victim of the dog's sharp teeth. It wasn't like Hallie to bite. Her sudden aggression concerned me.  
  
        The day might have turned out all right if that had been the end of the excitement. It certainly seemed like it was more than what an average day could possibly hold for a single family. However, it was later when I was passing by Ben's office, after Mom had forced her youngest daughter out of her bedroom and took her clothes shopping, that really set the tone of the entire day. Moira's grandmotherly voice floated from inside and made me pause as I was slightly startled she was still in the house; then I realized Mom must have hired her on to be our housekeeper and she was just wanting to get a head start.  
  
        Normally I would have accepted it without question, but she said something that froze me in my spot just outside the ajar sliding door: "Do it again. Show me."  
  
        Her voice was sultry. That was an adjective I never once thought could be applied to a voice belonging to someone elderly, but there it was. And hearing it, I couldn't help but peek inside the crack between the door and the wall to see what was going on inside that room. I had to satisfy my growing curiosity and soothe my confusion. But what I saw did anything but soothe.  
  
        Ben was sitting on the couch. Moira was leaning over him. My confusion was quickly replaced with repulsion as Ben closed his eyes and groaned, his hand reaching out to touch the older woman's leg. Moira went to back up, but when I rested my hand on the door, it creaked under the slight pressure and alerted the both of them to my presence. Ben's eyes had flown open and filled with shock as they landed on me.  
  
        He called my name, but I had already fled the scene. My mind could not process what I had just witnessed. Ben had been obviously turned on by Moira. The elderly housekeeper. He had been about to touch her. I thought of Mom and of how devastated she would be if she knew about this. But I had to tell her. Didn't I?  
  
        I don't know when I had fallen asleep during my worry session, but when my eyes opened up, I was sprawled on top of my blankets still in my clothes and my room was bathed in the moonlight streaming through my windows. Something instantly felt wrong. There was something negative about the energy in my room. Like there was someone lurking in the shadows, just waiting for me to fall back asleep, biding their time for the opportune moment when they would strike and prevent me from ever waking up again. It was not a pleasant feeling.  
  
        Swallowing, I shifted my gaze around my darkened room before my eyes fell on a distinct figure standing at the foot of my bed. The form appeared to be male in stature. A black latex outfit -- it looked remarkably like that sex suit I had discovered in the attic -- tightly outlined his lean figure. Every inch of the tall figure was covered except for the eyes. Through the holes provided, I could see that the skin around them was pale, almost luminescent against the latex, and the irises were insanely dark.  
  
        My sleep-fogged mind didn't stop to question why I hadn't noticed the sinister figure before. All I registered at the moment was that those obscure eyes were locked on me and the figure was moving closer to my bed. It then took me another second to realize that I should be trying to put distance between us. My heart rate instantly picked up as I began to process what was happening. There was an intruder in my room with unknown intent, and he was coming for _me_.  
  
        I sucked in a sharp breath as fear gripped at me and quickly scooted back until I was pressed against my metal bed frame. He continued to advance until he was crawling onto my mattress. Squeaking in fear, I made a move to dodge the figure and scramble off to the floor, but his hands quickly shot out and wrapped around my wrists before he tugged me until I found myself trapped beneath him. It had happened so fast. I hadn't even had the time to struggle out of his grip or call for help, but the moment he towered above me while restraining my wrists, I opened my mouth and produced a scream shrill enough to wake the dead from their eternal slumber.  
  
        He didn't so much as flinch. As I writhed beneath him, trying to squirm out from underneath him, he merely moved my hands together and used a single hand to pin them against the mattress before running the other one along the exposed skin of my stomach. I let out another scream, calling for help from anyone who could hear, as that hand trailed up and rested between my breasts. It rested there for a moment before the fabric was suddenly bunched and ripped away from my body. The sound of the seams tearing was deafening to me. My bra was the next article to go flying across the room.  
  
        Tears began leaking as the figure bent his head down to rest between my freshly exposed breasts. My screams were gradually losing their shrillness and volume as my hope began to diminish. If no one had heard them by now, if no one was coming to my rescue, I wasn't going to be saved from this unless it was at my own hand, and as both of mine were firmly restrained, there was little I could do. The only thing I took comfort in was the fact that I still had on my jeans and there was no way he was going to get those off easily.  
  
        I was startled when the figure suddenly sat up and leaned forward. My teary eyes frightfully followed his movements. His hand found the string of fairy lights that hung just above my bed, turned off as I had fallen asleep before turning them on, and jerked it off the wall. When he tugged my wrists forward and brought the lights towards them, I struggled, using all the strength I could muster in my attempt to dislodge his grip. I might as well have been fighting against a brick wall as he wound the cord tightly around my wrists and then tied them to the metal bars of my headboard. My arms were stretched almost painfully as he had tied them as far apart as possible to prevent me from thrashing around too much.  
  
        Both of his hands were now free for exploration. He took advantage of it. He ran both of them over my torso before cupping my breasts, squeezing and kneading them in his hands. I arched my back in a vain attempt to knock him off of me, but that just seemed to encourage him as he then moved down my body and fought to spread my legs before settling between them. My breath hitched into my throat at the distinct bulge that was now pressed against my center. It was like I was just realizing what was about to happen to me, and my tears turned into desperate sobs as I resorted to begging whoever it was not to do it.  
  
        My please just fell on deaf ears. The intruder popped the button on my jeans and hooked his fingers in the waistband before sliding them down my legs. I kicked out at him, but that proved fruitless as he just continued pulling at my jeans until they had joined my blouse and bra on the floor. Settling back between my thighs, he reached down and rubbed against the only barrier protecting my innocence. A mere scrap of fabric that was suddenly ripped away and discarded.  
  
        I squeezed my eyes shut as he continued to rub, taking a single finger and circling around a certain spot that caused a familiar heat to flare at the apex of my thighs. My body was responding to his touch despite how much I despised it. Even though I knew it was an involuntary reaction, it still made me feel dirty, like I was a whore for being aroused from my to-be rapist's touch. I was a virgin. Up until that moment, the only person to touch me in such an intimate manner had been me. And even that hadn't aroused me as much as this stranger's touch was.  
  
        My hips suddenly bucked up as a finger was inserted, followed by a second, both pumping in and out as his thumb resumed rubbing on that little bundle of nerves. More tears streamed down my face as I felt myself enjoying the assault of my body. I whimpered in shame. A third finger was added before all of them were removed. The sound of a zipper filled my ears. I turned my head away and let out another sob as I gave into my fate.  
  
        As he guided himself into me, I was sure I was going to die. The pain and the shame I felt seemed potent enough to stop my heart right there. I wished it would. I felt like I was being ripped apart -- both my body and my soul. My spirit was being squashed more and more with each thrust he gave. He might as well have been pumping the life out of me. I could almost feel myself slipping into that dark abyss.  
  
        Vaguely I wondered if there would be a bright light before I went. But that thought was cut off as something inside me exploded and a cry of pleasure was forced past my lips. His release followed soon after, and he slumped over me. My eyes fluttered opened. He lifted his head and reached above me. I felt the cords around my wrists loosen and fall away, leaving my arms to fall to the mattress. I raised them to unzip the mask to reveal my assailant, but my weakened state allowed him to grab my wrists again in one of his hands without much struggle. His other hand came up to gently caress my face. The black rubber slid effortlessly against my tear-slicked cheek.  
  
        My vision was gradually darkening as my eyelids were becoming too heavy to keep open. I fought to stay awake, but after a second, I realized there was no point in me doing so. If these were my final moments, I welcomed them. The last thing I felt before I was engulfed in darkness was my head falling to the side and my hair being swept behind my ear.  
  
        "Abbie, honey."  
  
        My eyes flew open as I was startled at the sound of my mom calling my name. I was jolted with the realization that I was still in my bed, but there was no man in a rubber suit on top of me, and I was not naked. I was safely tucked under the covers with my pajamas on. A quick glance upward granted me with the sight of my fairy lights. The cord was intact and the lights were on. My chest heaved as my breathing quickened at my disorientation.  
  
        Standing beside my bed, Mom smiled. "Good morning, sweetheart. I know it's early, and I'm sorry, but can you take Vi to school today?" she asked.  
  
        Mutely, I nodded my head, an absent reaction. Her smile softened as she thanked me. She reached out and brushed some hair out of my face before leaving the room with a quick reminder that I had half an hour before I had to take my sister to school. My eyes moved to my clock and confirmed the time. Taking a deep breath, I sat up in my bed and looked around, seeing nothing out of place. The curtains had even been drawn. I closed my eyes and groaned.  
  
        It had only been a dream.

* * *

**Please leave a comment telling me what you thought. This is completely new for me; I have never written anything like this before now, and I'm sure it shows just how awkward I felt writing it. But I do promise this is pertinent to the story and not just there for fun. I'm curious as to how it was perceived, though, and I do hope I haven't offended anyone as I know rape is a serious topic and nothing to be taken lightly.**

**A/N: Inspiration for this chapter comes from EchoSerenade's 'Vision' on Fanfiction.net.**


	8. Memoria

The dream plagued my thoughts even as I drove my sister to her school. It had been so prevalent in my mind that I had sat in bed for the full thirty minutes that I had available before I had to get up. When it was time to leave, I hadn't even changed out of my pajamas -- a white tank top and plaid bottoms -- which I still didn't remember putting on before going to sleep last night. The dream aside, that was what was really bothering me. Why couldn't I remember anything that had actually happened? The last thing I was able to recall before being woken up by my Mom was that stupid dream.  
  
        To say I'd never had a wet dream before would be a blatant lie, but never had I had one that was so vivid. I think that's why it bothered me so much. It had seemed so real. Every touch, every feeling, it was as though it was all actually happening. That darkness I had felt myself slipping into as I was willingly accepting what I had been certain would have been my final moments of life . . . Would I have truly given up that easily if it had been real? I had thought it was real at the time, and I had stopped putting up a fight against my assailant, had quit struggling far sooner than I should have.  
  
        Maybe that was what bothered me so much. Perhaps it wasn't how realistic it had been to me, but instead how quickly I had given in and accepted my fate. I had never been particularly strong, but my will has always been able to withstand anything that had been thrown at me, even with everything that had occurred within the last year, and I had just so willingly given up my fight as I laid there and let that rubber-clad intruder steal my innocence without fighting against him to the best of my limited ability. The realization that it apparently would be that easy to get me to succumb to my death made me sick to my stomach.  
  
        "Abbie?"  
  
        My sister's tentative voice brought me out of my thoughts. It was only then I realized that we had already pulled up to Westfield High. At least my body seemed to know how to operate even if my mind was a bit preoccupied. Blinking, I turned my head to look at Violet. Her hazel eyes peered back at me curiously.  
  
        Scrunching her eyebrows together, she asked, "Are you all right? You seem out of it this morning."  
  
        It took a second for her words to break through the haze. When I finally registered what she had said, I plastered a smile on my face and nodded my head. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Just thinking. Sorry, I must have spaced out or something. You, uh, didn't happen to say anything while I was . . . gone, did you?"  
  
        She shook her head. "No. You looked like you were someplace else. I figured I wouldn't get a response." Her eyes briefly flicked out the window to the brick building in which she was forced to spend roughly seven hours of her day. "Are you sure you're okay, though? I mean, you've been a little . . . different since the move," she commented softly.  
  
        My eyebrows furrowed. She sounded genuinely worried, and that worried _me_. Had I really been so different? I knew I was probably a little more distant than I usually was, but a lot had been going on, and my mind was just overwhelmed with everything. Still, that was no excuse. It must have been a little worse than I realized if it had Violet so concerned.  
  
        I sighed and offered up what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Vi. I promise. Now, we can talk later; you have class."  
  
        She nodded and slipped out of the car without another word. Another sigh slipped past my lips as I watched her petite form, cloaked in one of the conservative outfits she had bought with Mom yesterday evening, disappear into the crowd of teenagers. It was odd for her to show concern for the family after Grandma Mary had passed. But it wasn't like she didn't care. She just chose not to express it so openly as she did right then. I felt guilty for making her worry about me, even if it was a little bit. She wasn't supposed to worry about me. I, as the older sister, was supposed to worry about her. It was not supposed to be the other way around.  
  
        Shaking my head, I put the gear back into drive and pulled out of the lot, following a small line of vehicles. This move had completely messed with me, more than what I had thought it would. I had made a promise to myself that I was going to make the best of this fresh start, to do what I could to make it easier on the family, but I didn't feel as though I was holding up my end of the bargain. I certainly wasn't doing my part to make things easier on Ben. Despite everything he's put us through and the detest I currently held for him, he was still my father and I still felt obligated to help him out by not putting too much stress on him. That was something I had probably played too big a part in causing for him.  
  
        What I needed was to just relax and escape from my thoughts for a little while. A hot shower provided a nice opportunity to do that. So did a bath. I was not one for baths, as I did not exactly relish the idea of sitting in my own filth, but I had made up my mind by the time I was easing into the drive. A bathtub filled with hot water and some of Mom's lavender-scented salts and oils just had my name written all over it. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore once I envisioned myself sinking into the tub, sliding down until the water and scented bubble mixture floated just underneath my nose, my eyes closed and my head thrown back as I enjoyed the long awaited sensation of my stress melting away bubble by bubble.  
  
        After setting out my clothes for the day, which consisted of nothing more than a pair of grey spacedye leggings and a slate-colored sweater with the famous words _hakuna matata_ and an outline of a heart printed across the front, I plugged in my cell phone and selected my Nirvana playlist. The music echoed into the bathroom and was easily heard with the door left open just a crack. I would have plugged my phone in there with me, but the only outlet by the sink had burned out, and as my battery was in desperate need of a recharge, that left me with the option of leaving the door ajar in order to listen to Kurt Cobain's vocals. How Violet could not see or hear his beauty was a mystery to me.  
  
        The warm, lavender-scented water gently caressed my body as I lowered myself into the ceramic tub, a sigh involuntarily leaving my lungs in a long exhale that released my stress and my worries into the air with it. My dark hair had been pinned up at the back of my head with a clip and was saved from the heated liquid as I sunk down until my head was resting comfortably against the curve of the porcelain. To prevent myself from sliding lower, I brought my forearms up and lightly curled my fingers around the edge of the tub, my grip just strong enough to keep me afloat even as I allowed my body to let go of all the tension that had been building up. My eyes closed as the lyrics to _Come As You Are_ circled around me.

  
_Come as you are, as you were_  
 _As I want you to be_  
 _As a friend, as a friend_  
 _As a known enemy_

  
        Suddenly I found myself standing in the middle of an ornate hallway that I had never once seen. The carpet was a rich red with golden intones that matched the walls on either side. An unknown force moved my feet down the corridor. The numbers on each wooden door I passed were blurry and impossible to decipher. I didn't know where I was headed, but my feet did. My body to a stop in front of a room whose door was slightly ajar, allowing only the smallest glimpse into what lay on the other side.  


_Take your time, hurry up_   
_Choice is yours, don't be late_   
_Take a rest as a friend_   
_As an old_

  
        A hand lifted and pressed against the wooden surface. It was mine. The slight pressure applied caused the door to give way and open a little wider. The scene in front of me became clearer. A figure was stood over a large, antique tub whose metal frame glinted in the artificial lighting. Their back was to me, but from the pinstriped suit I could see peeking out from underneath the matching rubber apron and gloves hinted that the tall, imposing frame belonged to a man.  
  
        His hands were busy as he worked over the antique tub which, upon closer inspection, had a pale arm hanging over the side, the elbow crooked over the edge. The objects in the man's hands glinted maliciously. _Knives._ A thick substance rolled its way down the exposed arm and was dripping off of the man's black apron. Dark red blots appeared below both.  


_Memoria, memoria  
Memoria, memoria_

  
        My eyes widened at the gruesome sight. In my horror, I had failed to notice that the figure had stilled his movements, not realizing I was potentially in danger until his body started turning towards me. My fingers curled tightly against the door, my knuckles turning white as my nails scratched the wood from the strength that stemmed from the ice-cold fear washing over my frozen body. I sucked in a sharp breath as his head turned to fully face me, revealing not his face but a sort of strange gas mask that only enhanced his terrifying appearance. He stalked towards me.  


_Rape me_  
 _Rape me my friend_  
 _Rape me_  
 _Rape me again_  


        I sucked in another sharp breath, only to feel a tepid liquid slide down my throat and settled in my lungs instead of the air I was expecting. My eyes flew open as I hurriedly pulled my body up, leaning over the edge of the bathtub as hacking coughs were utilized to dispel the intruding substance. It wasn't until I could breathe again, though my throat had grown sore and raspy, that I realized I had fallen asleep while bathing. I must have slipped under the surface of the water and breathed in the liquid accidentally. Though I must say I was rather relieved I had been saved from whatever outcome I had been about to experience in that disturbing scene.  
  
        What the hell even was that? And to think the sole purpose of this bath had been to achieve some relaxation. All it had succeeded in granting me was more tension! I just couldn't catch a break. First that lifelike nightmare from last night, and now that ghastly dream I had just witnessed. Both were particularly stress-inducing.  


_I'm not the only one_   
_I'm not the only one_   
_I'm not the only one_   
_I'm not the only one_

  
        The music had still been audible to me even after I had apparently nodded off. _Come As You Are_ had still been playing as I walked down those carpeted halls. But it had also cut off after the third stanza. Now my phone was broadcasting _Rape Me_ like it would have eventually had the previous song not been interrupted. But _Come As You Are_ had been cut off and switched to another song. The realization caused the now wet hairs on the back of my neck to prickle with that feeling of uneasiness to which I had become so accustomed over the past week or so.  
  
        Grabbing my towel from my sink, I stood and wrapped it around me, listening for any noise as I carefully stepped out of the tub. The faint sound of the springs in my mattress creaking put me on full alert. There were only two people it could logically be: Mom and Ben. And Moira as well, I suppose, although I could not fathom as to why a woman of her generation would be interested in hanging out in a teenage girl's room and listening to her nineties music. Maybe I would have been better off with forgoing the music while I bathed; at least then I would have a way to call someone if assistance was required. I didn't even have anything good in the way of weapons in my bathroom, so I just reached out and grabbed the first item I saw that could be of some use: a can of hairspray.  
  
        It wasn't much, but if there was a malicious intruder in my bedroom, at least I could spray him in the eyes and make a run for it. Pepper spray would have been better, but I had to work with what I had available.  


_Hate me_  
 _Do it and do it again_  
 _Waste me_  
 _Rape me my friend_  


        Firmly biting down on my lip, I brandished the hair product in one hand and used the other to open my door all the way. My eyes roamed over to my phone, which sat innocently where I had left it, but the screen was lit up, indicating that someone had been on it recently. I took another tentative step out into my room and looked around before my gaze finally landed on the foreign body lounging on my bed. My heart rate increases rapidly and I raised my arm to just throw the half-full can at him before he sat up and held up his hand in defense.  
  
        "Whoa, whoa! Relax!" he whispered, his voice hushed and a little hurried as he realized my hand had been seconds away from releasing my makeshift weapon at his head. "Chill, Abbie! It's just me!"  
  
        Upon realizing who I had almost assaulted, I openly glared. "What the hell are you doing in here?!" I hissed. I slowly lowered my arm, but my muscles remained coiled and ready should I need to go ahead and run.  
  
        The corner of his mouth lifted into a small smirk as he lowered his hands, placing them on his lap as he looked up at me. "You say that to me a lot."  
  
        "Because I always find you in my room without permission," I shot back, "and I know neither of my parents granted that to you, so what the hell are you doing in here? Why are you even in my house?"  
  
        I watched with carefully narrowed eyes as his smirk was replaced with a sheepish grin. The one that made his dimples pop out just a little bit to tease. He raised his hand and rubbed it over the back of his neck. If I studied him close enough, I could almost make out a hint of color pooled in his cheeks, but I wasn't going to place any money on that. It was too faint to actually be there.  
  
        "Well, remember how I said I missed hanging out here now that you've moved in?" I nodded my head in response. "I sort of got lonely and . . ." His eyes flicked briefly to the side. Following his line of vision, I found myself looking at my window. Which was open. When I dragged my eyes back to him, he finished, "I may have used the tree outside your window."  
  
        My jaw slackened a bit as I stared at him in disbelief. He lowered his eyes to the covers on my bed. His fingers picked at one of the loose seams while I struggled for the words or the right course of action. This was the third time he had snuck into my room. My mind yelled at me to kick him out or call for Ben, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. There was just something about him that forced the logical part of me to power down. Part of me accused the way those damn puppy dog eyes of his were now peering up at me through his lashes like he knew what was going on inside my head at the moment.  
  
        And maybe he did. Maybe I was not the first girl whose room in which he liked to make himself at home.  
  
        I huffed and brought my free hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose. "Let me get this straight. You climbed in through my window?" When I looked at him, he nodded. "And you used the tree?" Another nod came in response, and I sighed as the final lyrics of _Rape Me_ played through my phone's speakers. "And you went on my phone and changed my music?" I asked. It was that part that I somehow couldn't get through my head; why break into my room just to change my music?  
  
        "Just the song," he corrected. "It's still the same artist."  
  
        I glared at him once more. "I know that. It's _my_ phone, for fuck's sake," I snapped. "How the hell did you even get on? It was locked," I added.  
  
        He shrugged. "You're seventeen. I just put in your year of birth. Wasn't too hard to figure out since we're the same age." Decidedly ignoring my glare, Tate reached around him and produced some fabric, which he then held out to me. "Here's your clothes, by the way. I mean, unless you prefer to stay in that. Totally up to you, I'm good with either," he teased, that damned smirk appearing on his face again, somehow making his features that much more attractive.  
  
        It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. But when it hit me, it hit me hard. I was practically naked in front of him! All I had on was a small towel that was only just enough fabric to cover myself! The heat that blossomed took less than a second to shoot up the back of my neck and vividly flush everything else. Amazing how the threat of an intruder and the discovery of a cute teenage boy on my bed had the power to wipe that face completely from my mind.  
  
        So, with a hard swallow, I averted my eyes and quickly grabbed my clothes from him before throwing myself back in my bathroom and slamming the door shut behind me. His chuckle followed me as I then decided on a whim to lock it as well. The click of the metal was quite audible. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I set everything down on the counter and gripped the sink with shaking hands, my fingers curling inward. My eyes stared back at me from the reflection in the mirror.  
  
        What was it about Tate that pretty much automatically excused him from getting yelled at by me? I should have kicked him out or screamed for Ben to come do that for me; I was still his daughter and I was his 'little princess' when I was younger. That would have been the most logical way to go about the situation. But no. I had to ask him a series of questions and completely forget that I was only wrapped up in a towel, so basically everything was exposed to close enough to being so. As if things with the boy weren't awkward enough as they were . . .  
  
        Nothing like this ever happened back in Boston. Not once did I ever have a boy sneak into my room -- neither with nor without my expressed permission. The only people to have even snuck into the house had been me, Violet, and Hayden McClaine. Although I suspected that last one happened quite willingly.  
  
        I sighed and decided to stop standing around in just my towel. This move was going to be the death of me.  
  
        When I stepped back out into my room, clad in my lounge-around clothes and hair held out of my face by an elastic band, Nirvana's _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ filled the space. Tate had gotten off my bed and was studying my bookcase. He looked over when he heard the door open with a smile on his face. Slightly pulling out one of my books, he asked, "Do you actually like this shit?"  
  
        Peering closer at the title, I recognized it as one of my favorites, beautifully written by the talented Margaret Mitchell. I frowned slightly. "Hey, that _shit_ is a classic work of literature. Beats just about everything that's been published this millennium," I argued. Finally moving from my spot in front of the bathroom, I crossed over to my desk where my phone still sat.  
  
        Tate pulled the novel out completely and examined the cover for a second before scoffing. "The title is so stupid. _Gone with the Wind_. What the hell's that even supposed to mean?"  
  
        "It's talking about the antebellum era in the South before the Civil War, how it never returned to its previous grandeur after the war," I defended, picking up my phone and unlocking it before searching for my settings. "Now quit knocking it and put it back where you found it."  
  
        After a moment of contemplation, he did as I said and slid the novel back into its proper spot. When he noticed what I was doing, he stepped forward slightly. "You're not changing the song, are you?"  
  
        Huffing out a semblance of a laugh, I shook my head. "Not right now, but I _am_ changing my passcode." I slid my eyes over to him for a second. "But seeing how this is _my_ phone and _my_ room, I will change the song if I damn well want to," I said.  
  
        As I tapped in the digits for my new passcode, since apparently my birth year was just a little too easy to figure out, Tate shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and sauntered over to me. "Bet I can guess this one too," he bragged. I quickly locked my screen once the code was set and turned to look at him with my eyebrows raised.  
  
        "You think so?" I asked, turning my body to face him fully, crossing my arms over my chest. His response was that lopsided grin and a nod of his head. A smirk playing at my lips, I leaned towards him a little and lowered my voice. "Well, you wanna know what _I_ think?" At the slight arching of his brow, I continued, " _I_ think that if you get into my phone again, I'm gonna have Ben get your tree out there chipped down to kindling."  
  
        "All right, I can take a hint," he huffed, plopping himself down in my computer chair and swiveling back and forth a little as he grinned up at me. "So why aren't you in school right now?"  
  
        Rolling my eyes, I sat on the edge of my bed. "Why aren't _you_?" I returned pointedly.  
  
        "My mom homeschools me," he shrugged, but at my unimpressed look, he added, "She's sick today, so she gave me the day off."  
  
        "And you chose to spend your free time sneaking in my room, I'm flattered."  
  
        It was his turn to roll his eyes upon my sarcastic drawl. "You should be. I don't like too many people and you happen to be someone I do like. Your turn," he reminded me.  
  
        Ignoring the fluttery feeling in my stomach when he said he liked me -- _he doesn't mean anything by it, Abigail, it's probably because you just haven't kicked him out yet_ \-- I sighed and answered, "I graduated at the end of my junior year."  
  
        "Really?" At my nod of confirmation, he whistled. "Impressive. Smart." He paused for a second, his dark eyes locking on me, before he grinned again. "Smart chicks are such a turn on."  
  
        His words evoked another flash of heat to wash over me. Forget my cheeks. My whole _face_ was burning as he dropped his eyelid down in a wink. The warmth was so prevalent I was pretty sure my entire body had just a little bit more color to it. My reaction caused a bit of confusion within me that unfortunately did not dilute my flushed skin any. It wasn't like he was the first boy to throw a somewhat lewd comment my way. Usually I just rolled my eyes or flipped the person off and went on about my business. But for some reason it just felt different when it was Tate. I couldn't figure out why the boy had such an effect on me. Certainly it couldn't just be the undeniable fact that he was probably the most attractive teenage boy I had ever met. Though I'm sure that was a part of it. I _was_ a teenage girl after all.  
  
        There had to be something else to it. Something I was going to find out one way or another. But for now, I had to resign myself to the fact that I was currently hiding Tate away in my room and actually enjoying my company. And after what I'd experienced so far with him, not just including today's ongoing run-in, I knew one thing with utmost conviction.  
  
        It was going to be a long day.

* * *

**This is really just a filler chapter. As it is mostly improvisation, and I happen to suck at that, I am sure it was not very well written, especially towards the end. And I never realized before just how hard a character Tate can be to write if I'm not going off the show's transcript. I apologize if I completely butchered his lovely character.  
**


	9. A Public Service

"Abbie, Leah. Leah, Abbie."  
  
        My eyes openly scrutinized the girl standing before me. She was about my height with long brown hair that hung straight as cornsilk down her back, blue eyes that possessed a tinge of green, and an uppity appearance that perfectly complemented her holier than thou attitude. Her own eyes raked over me, and I noticed the sneer twisting at her lips with the same distaste I felt towards her. Violet stood slightly between us, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, waiting for either one of us to speak or for the signal that it was clear to go on.  
  
        I made the first move.  
  
        Adopting a flat smile, I held my hand out to her and waited until she took it before saying in the fakest sweet voice I could muster, "So _you're_ the Leah I've heard so much about. It's _so_ nice to finally the big bad senior who's taken it upon herself to give my baby sister here a proper welcome. Shame your posse couldn't tag along."  
  
        Leah scowled darkly and ripped her hand from mine. Her upper lip curled back, she turned to Violet, who rolled her eyes at me. "Take me to my shit," the girl ordered. The way she spoke to my sister caused anger to swell within me, but Violet decided to cut me off before I could even open my mouth.  
  
        "Follow me," she beckoned.  
  
        I watched as the bright-eyed teenager led her personal bully towards the basement. As much as I wanted to see that Leah get what was coming to her, whatever that was, for making my sister's life Hell so far, I knew that this -- again, whatever _this_ was -- was not right. Something was going to go wrong. I could feel it. I sensed it the moment it was decided.  
  
 _Somehow I had been able to keep Tate a secret all day. Neither Mom nor Ben had bothered to check up on me since I gave Violet a ride to school. Occasionally I would slip downstairs for something to drink or a quick snack and have a few words with Mom, who was once again working in the living room; she was repainting over that hideous mural. Then Ben stayed up in his office for the majority of the day. I heard him go downstairs a couple times, and only one time did he stay down there longer than five minutes. But I was never bothered by either of my parents.  
  
        Tate hung out with me the whole time. He seemed content to just lounge in my bedroom and talk with me. I quickly realized that he was very easy to talk to. He listened and never once interrupted or switched topics unless I asked for one. And he never once took something I said and turned it into something about him. It was really nice.  
  
        We were able to talk about so much with each other. I told him about how I missed Boston and the way things were before the miscarriage. He told me about all the fun times he remembered sharing with his dad before he left. I worried about Violet. He shared with me how he had gone through the same thing at Westfield High and that was the reason his mother had pulled him out to homeschool him. He then proceeded to assure me that it wouldn't reach that point with Violet, that eventually things will improve for her once she was better settled in. I appreciated his positivity.  
  
        "What scares me?" I repeated incredulously, making sure that I had heard his question correctly. When he nodded his head and waited patiently for a response, I blew some air out of my mouth and thought. "Well, I've always been terrified of clowns."  
  
        He rose an eyebrow. "Clowns?"  
  
        I nodded and laughed a little at the tone of his voice. "Yeah. Ever since I was a little girl. My grandma had this cousin or someone who had, like this _really _terrible experience with one when she was young. He turned out to be a murderer or something."  
  
        "Wow," he spoke, spinning lightly in the computer chair he had taken a liking to. "And here I thought clowns were supposed to be happy and shit."  
  
        "That's just a lie fabricated by them to lure us in and make us trust them," I scoffed, a grin stretched across my face as he chuckled and shook his head at me. "But yeah. Ever since I heard that story, I haven't been able to go within twenty feet of one without freaking out."  
  
        Tate analyzed me for a moment before commenting, "Halloween must suck for you, then."  
  
        I groaned and buried my face in my hands. "You have no idea. All I wanted to do on Halloween was dress like a fairy princess and get candy. There wasn't a single street where at least one kid wasn't dressed as a clown. It was awful," I shuddered.  
  
        His response to my dramatics was an amused chuckle. I couldn't help but laugh along with him. For so many years I had allowed my trick-or-treating be ruined by some clown costume. Of course I didn't trick-or-treat anymore, but when I did, if there was a clown standing anywhere near a house, I would beg my parents to get my candy for me. Violet was always the brave one on Halloween. She was always dressed scary, as a vampire or a wicked witch or something just as dark, and paid no mind to any other costumes around her. Whereas I was always the one dressed like Cinderella or Tinkerbell or Snow White -- over the years I had been every Disney princess and heroin I used to watch on the television -- and cowering behind my mother or father whenever I spotted a child dressed in a clown suit.  
  
        I was only a child then. But, if I was being honest with myself, I would probably do the same now.  
  
        Turning around on my bed so my back was facing him and lying down with my head hanging over the edge of the mattress, looking up at him from an upside down perspective, I smiled and said, "Your turn."  
  
        His brows rose a fraction even as his dimpled grin stayed in place. "I'm not afraid of anything," he boasted. He puffed his chest out in a show of faux masculinity.  
  
        "Come on, Tate," I whined, pouting at him and fighting off a smile. "I shared my fear with you, it's your turn."  
  
        His dark eyes appraised me for a moment. He seemed to be thinking about something. I assumed it was his response. However, before another word could be uttered, the door to my bedroom suddenly flung open. My heart jumped into my throat and I quickly erected myself, my widened eyes darting to the entrance. When I saw who it was, I almost let out a sigh of relief as I had been certain it was one of my parents, but the action was ceased when I really got a look at them.  
  
        It was Violet. She was finally home from school. But her appearance had been slightly altered from what it was when I had dropped her off. The skin surrounding her left eye was bruised and swollen slightly. Her lip was busted and a little puffier than normal. All thoughts of having to defend having Tate in my room instantly exited my head when I saw her altered appearance.  
  
        Scooting to the end of my bed, I reached out and fretted, "Shit, Vi, what the hell happened to you?"  
  
        My hand grasped at the material of her shirt sleeve so I could pull her towards me, but she wrenched her arm out of my grip. "Fucking Leah!" she exclaimed, starting to pace back and forth across my carpet. "God, I hate her! I just want to kill her!" She raked her hands angrily through her disheveled hair. A murderous expression had taken over her features.  
  
        I jumped off my bed and went over to shut my door. Violet's anger had control over her voice at the moment and she was being loud enough to alert both our parents. Knowing my sister as well as I did, I knew she wouldn't want them eavesdropping or interfering. Her feet continued to carry her back and forth across my floor.  
  
        "Then do it!" Tate interjected from his seat in my chair, causing Violet to stop and glance at him with a scornful look before rolling her eyes. "One less high school bitch making the lives of the less fortunate more tolerable is, in my opinion, a public service."  
  
        I gaped at him. Was he seriously encouraging my sister to _kill _this girl? Surely I was taking his words too literally. Still, though, I decided to cut in, if only to soothe my own unease about the situation thus far. Gently grabbing my sister's hand, I whirled her around to face me, saying, "Vi, you're just upset. You need to calm down. Tell me what happened."  
  
        Tate's voice pierced the air again as soon as the last word left my mouth. "Look, Violet, you want her to leave you alone? Stop making your life a living hell?" Violet tucked her lip into her mouth and turned back to face him, seemingly drawn by his words. "Short of killing her, there's only one option: scare her. Make her afraid of you. It's the only thing bullies react to," he added.  
  
        "Tate, you're not helping --"  
  
        "How?"  
  
        Rolling my eyes, I huffed at Violet's eager question. Tate just smirked and leaned back in his seat and said, "It's simple. You simply walk up to her and say, 'Here's the deal: I need you to stop harassing me. I got what you want. Drugs. Come to my house tomorrow for your free sample. I'm a dealer, and a good one. I got the best shit in town.'"  
  
        "She's a cokehead," Violet sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and chewing on her bottom lip. "I don't have coke."  
  
        "Yes, the one problem in this otherwise perfect plan," I scoffed before groaning and roughly raking my hands through my hair in frustration. "Violet, don't listen to Tate; Tate, just . . . shut up." Ignoring his affronted expression, I wrapped my hand around my sister's upper arm and forced her to turn around and look at me. "Trying to get revenge is only going to exacerbate the situation, Violet. There are better ways to deal with this."  
  
        Violet frowned and ripped her arm away from me. Her determined glare pierced through me. "And how would you know? You don't even know what it's like," she snapped, making me falter as I let my arm fall back to my side. Pursing her lips, she returned her gaze to Tate. "What am I gonna do about the coke?" she demanded.  
  
        Swallowing, I allowed Violet's words to sink in. She was right. I didn't know what it was like. I didn't know what she was going through. While I was in school, I was rarely ever picked on, and definitely not to the degree where I was coming home with cuts and bruises. But how Violet had spat the words at me, her tone sharp and angry, it made me feel like I had failed at protecting my sister. And obviously I had if this was what it all had come to. Even so, I knew that this was not going to solve anything. This wasn't right. It was wrong. I just had to make Violet see that.  
  
        Tate's eyes casted to me for a second before returning to my sister. With a sigh, he explained, "You won't need any. It's just an excuse to get her here. After that, she'll leave empty-handed and afraid. And I promise you, you'll never be bothered by her again."  
  
        Violet nodded her head slightly. "How am I going to terrify her?" she asked.  
  
        Tate's mouth stretched into a grin. "That's where I come in."_  
  
        I tucked my bottom lip into my mouth in thought. This was so wrong. It was bad. Something was not right. Something awful was going to happen if I just let the events unfold. Leah may be a proper bitch who had it out for Violet, but I couldn't just stand by and allow this to happen. If I did that, and either one of them ended up physically harmed, I knew I would never forgive myself. I had to stop it.  
  
        My mind made up, I jogged after them. "Hey, wait!" When I turned the corner, they had already disappeared, but the basement door was wide open. If I listened carefully, I could make out two female voices. "Girls!" I called as I slowly approached the doorway. My voice wavered only slightly.  
  
        No response came my way. Their own voices were getting further away as they continued down into the deepest layer of the house. I stood at the top of the stairs with my hand gripping the door. There was nothing I wanted to do less than follow those girls down into the basement. Out of all the places to go through with this plan for revenge, I fully understood why the basement was the location of choice. It provided the perfect setting for a terrifying experience.  
  
        Taking a deep breath in, I started my descent down into the darkness. The wooden stairs creaked and shifted under my weight with every step. One hand gripped the railing while the other ran along the wall on the opposite side. With how uneven those steps seemed as I continued, I didn't want to place my weight on an unstable one and fall the rest of the way down.  
  
        This was my first time down there. I hadn't realized how dark it would be. Basements were dark by nature, but for some reason the one making up the foundation of our house seemed particularly so, and not just in the way that suggested a lack of light. There also seemed to be a dark feeling lingering around the open space. It enveloped me the moment both my feet hit the concrete ground.  
  
        Sucking in a breath, I called out for Violet and Leah once more. My voice had grown quiet and shaky as every hair on my body seemed to suddenly stand erect with the unnerving sensation that someone was breathing down my neck, their eyes carefully following every move I made as I went further into the damp cellar. I strained my ears to hear voices until they led me to a section deep in the basement. The very back part of it. The section that not an iota of light would reach had there not been artificial lighting already set up.  
  
        Tate's voice floated out to me as I neared their location. "So this is the coke whore."  
  
        "Who the hell are you?" Leah responded.  
  
        From the tone of her voice, I could tell that even while she was trying to show them she was tough, a twinge of fear had already set in. My breathing stuttered slightly as I rounded the corner just as Tate commanded, "Get the lights."  
  
        Everything was plunged into darkness a second later. I couldn't see an inch in front of my face. Then they began flickering. Standing just inside the doorway, I could make out three figures between the disorienting flashes. Violet remained by the switch as she had probably been the one to turn off the lights. Leah was standing more towards the center of the room. Tate was sitting in a wooden rocking chair. His eyes seemed even darker than usual, more menacing, as he then threw his head back and let out a maniacal laugh. The chair rocked violently underneath him.  
  
        It felt like ice had been injected into my veins and was slowly replacing the blood that pumped through them. My limbs had frozen in response. I couldn't do anything but stare in horror at the sight before me. My reflexes were paralyzed to the point where I didn't even flinch when Leah screamed, "What is going on?! What is going on?!"  
  
        My eyes locked on Tate, I caught the change that occurred briefly between the flickering of the fluorescents. For a flash, it was no longer Tate whom I was staring at, but something else. It didn't even look human. But at the next flicker Tate was still where he'd been when I'd walked in, that dark laughter still spilling crazily from his mouth.  
  
        Suddenly the laughter ceased, but what came from him next was even worse. "Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!" he chanted, a malice evident on his face and laced in his words. He then lunged out of the chair and threw himself onto the frightened senior. His weight took them both to the ground.  
  
        Seeing Tate physically attack Leah was enough to shake me out of the fear-induced state of paralysis I had found myself in. As Tate began shaking her, I stepped forward and screamed, "No! Tate! Get off her!"  
  
        Leah's terrified screams accompanied by own as she begged, "Get off of me! Get off of me!"  
  
        But suddenly it wasn't Tate who had her pinned. It was something else. That thing I saw in the chair. An inhuman little monster, teeth in a sharp point and covered in a red liquid, as I was now able to get a good look at it. Its presence caused Violet to let out a shriek that rivaled Leah's.  
  
        "Stop! Stop!" Violet pleaded as Leah continued to scream for it to get off of her. "Please! Stop!"  
  
        "Leave her alone!" I screamed.  
  
        Tears had already spilled out of my widened eyes and were steadily rolling down my cheeks. I made a move towards them, intending to kick that thing off of Leah, but something wrapped around my torso and pinned my arms to my side as I was yanked away from the assault. My back slammed against something firm. All the screams were deafening to me even as I contributed to the shrill sounds and struggled against my restraint.  
  
        The creature slowly reached its hand out towards Leah's face as she thrashed underneath it. Her screams turned into a single whimper of, "Mommy . . . ?"  
  
        Her voice sounded like an innocent child before being replaced once again with shrill screams. Except these were ones of pain, not fear like the others had been. Violet's hand slammed against the switch, throwing it up, and the room was suddenly filled with a constant light instead of that horrifying flickering. The restraints around my middle vanished, causing me to lose my support -- I had been trying to throw myself forward both for release and to help Leah -- and pitch forward to the hard ground. I caught myself on my hands and knees and looked up to see that Tate was sitting calmly in the chair, a weird look on his face. Violet stood by the switch with tears glistening on her face. Leah was still on the concrete, but she was now sporting three slashes across her left cheek, all of which were oozing blood.  
  
        Upon realizing it was over, Leah let out a sob and jumped up, clutching a hand to her injury as she rushed out of the room. In her hurry she nearly knocked over Violet. The younger girl quickly followed after her, shouting, "Will you wait?!"  
  
        Getting my body to move from its position was like trying to move a brick wall with a single hand. It just couldn't be done. I once again found myself frozen in my spot. The ice had returned to my veins and had brought with it a cold sweat that settled over me. My eyes remained rooted on the drops of blood staining the concrete where Leah had been attacked. I gathered from Violet's reaction that she'd had no idea what she had been leading Leah into when she'd agreed to Tate's plan.  
  
         _Tate._ Something in him had changed during those short moments that had seemed to last hours. He had been the first assailant. I personally witnessed him tackle Leah to the ground and pin her down. But then . . . he had disappeared, and something else, something horrid, had taken his place. The switch had occurred in a blink of an eye. Or a flicker of light. Then the light had come back on, and there was nothing there. Tate had been sitting calmly in the chair like he had been in that position the whole time.  
  
        But he hadn't. I knew he hadn't. And for the first time since I'd met him, I understood why he was seeing Ben. He was a maniac. A psychopath. He was dangerous. Ben had been right to forbid me to hang out with him. I had been stupid not to listen.  
  
        Never in my life had I been as utterly terrified as I was right then. The fear was so intense that I honestly would have preferred to be locked in this room, flickering lights and all, with a clown. There was nothing that could even come close to the level of horror that this event had reached.  
  
        The wood of the rocking chair creaked, bringing me out of my thoughts and reminding me I wasn't yet out of the danger zone. "I don't think she'll be bothering your sister anymore," Tate remarked smugly. His footsteps neared me as he spoke.  
  
        Realizing he was coming towards me, I shoved myself up to my feet and backed away from him, not wanting to be anywhere near him after what happened. He stopped and his brow furrowed in confusion as he took in my tear-stained face and watery eyes. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I asked, "What the hell was that?"  
  
        The trembling in my voice betrayed my weak attempt to sound strong. It was kind of hard to even fake strength when every inch of my body was shivering, my lips were quivering, my eyes were wide with fright, and my face was probably drained of all color. If someone looking like I did right now tried to convince someone they were tough, it wasn't going to fly, which was why I knew I wouldn't have been able to pull it off even if my voice hadn't wavered.  
  
        Tate frowned. "What are you talking about? She hit me in the balls and got away." My eyes fell involuntarily to the blood stains on the concrete as my brain immediately registered the blatant like he was disguising as confusion. "She must have run into a wall or something," he excused.  
  
        My head moved back and forth. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid. There was something here, I _saw_ it." I snapped my eyes back to his, feeling a little bolder, which gave me the smallest amount of courage to raise my voice at him. "She didn't hit you, Tate; you disappeared! And she sure as hell didn't run into the damned wall! That monster slashed her face! What the hell was that, Tate?! What the hell is going on here?!" I shouted. I ignored the cracks in my voice and instead focused on his reaction to my words. At least as well as I could through the fresh tears that had accumulated.  
  
        He stared at me for a moment before taking measured steps in my direction. "You're talking crazy, Abigail." His voice was steady with a hint of confusion, but his dark eyes flashed with something that scared me. I backed away from his advancing form until I hit the wall directly beside the doorway. He stopped inches away from me, placing a hand just above my head on the doorframe and leaned in slightly, trapping me between him and the wall. "You don't know what you're talking about," he told me. There was an underlying hardened tone to his voice that made me feel almost threatened.  
  
        I summoned up what small amount of courage I could muster and glared at him. "I am _not_ crazy, I _know_ what I saw!" Acting on impulse, I then smacked my hands onto his chest and used all of my strength to shove his body away from me. "Get away from me!" I demanded.  
  
        Hurt flashed across his face before it was then replaced with yet another round of feigned confusion. "Why aren't you happy about this?" He took a couple steps towards me, but was wise enough to stop as my eyes narrowed further in warning. "This is so cook, Abbie. We showed that bitch. I promise she won't bother your sister after this," he insisted.  
  
        Tate lunged forward with the clear intention of hugging me as his arms tried to wrap around my frame. Fortunately my arms happened to be faster and quickly collided with his chest before shoving him away like I had done just a moment ago. He stumbled back as I continued to glare at him. I was hurt. I was hurt that he wasn't the sweet boy I had thought he was. Hurt that he was trying to make me out to be the crazy one when he was the psychopath having therapy sessions in my house. Hurt that he would so blatantly lie to my face after everything we had talked about and shared; who was to say that everything he had told me then wasn't also a lie?  
  
        That was the worst part of it. I had left myself trust him, and much like my father had done, he had taken my trust and shattered it into a million little pieces. It may not have been the same thing, definitely not the same circumstances, but my heart broke all the same.  
  
        "You stay the fuck away from me and my family," I ordered, clenching my jaw as the familiar stinging returned to my eyes. "Now get out and don't ever come back; consider that your public service."  
  
        Not waiting for a response, I darted around the corner and back up the stairs, hearing Tate shout after me. I ignored him and slammed the door shut as soon as I reached the top. Leaning my back against the wooden surface, I slid down to the floor and pulled my legs up to my chest, burying my face between my knees.  
  
        Then I let everything out.


	10. Paranormal Activity

Change was an inevitable part of life. It was always happening around us. What I didn't expect was for it to affect me as fast as it did.  
  
        Everything had changed since the incident in the basement. Tate had heeded my order and stayed away from me. He still came for his sessions with Ben, but he seemed to respect my wishes and made himself scarce when coming and going. I never once saw him. Leah had quit picking on Violet. That sounded like good news, but from what Violet had told me, it was far from it. What had happened down in that basement had completely broken the senior. She had become a recluse and even withdrew from her other friends. Violet was the only one she would talk to.  
  
        Not every change had been caused by the incident however. One of the other changes was by far the biggest on and would have the most impact on the family. It was in no way connected to Tate and Leah.  
  
        Mom was pregnant.  
  
        She hadn't explicitly announced it yet. At least not to me nor Violet. But during some of our talks she had informed me of the typical symptoms and of her own personal symptoms that had been the same for both of her daughters. She had quit drinking wine at dinner. Her face was gradually filling out. She had that healthy glow caused by pheromones. Her breasts had enlarged slightly and had become tender. She'd had a craving for Indian cuisine for the past couple weeks.  
  
        I didn't let on that I knew. She would tell me when she thought the time was right. As happy as I was for her, I was also worried. Her last pregnancy had been a tragic domino effect that had started all of this. The statistics for a woman her age having a successful pregnancy and birth were not in her favor either. I also thought that maybe she was under the impression that this child would be the one thing that would save her and Ben's marriage. In a way, I did hope their marriage would be saved. If the pregnancy and birth went smoothly, my baby brother or sister deserved to grow up with a united family.  
  
        The other unrelated change was I had finally rejoined the workforce. Unfortunately that bookshop I took Violet to didn't work out. Apparently they had just given up their last available position before I was supposed to get the call. But it wasn't long before I was granted with the perfect opportunity. On one of the days I gave Violet a ride to school, I had stopped at this café called _Cafecito Organico_ on my way back home for some coffee and maybe a muffin, and they were hosting open interviews. I sat down with one of the managers and was hired on the spot.  
  
        So much was happening in the course of just a few weeks. It nearly made my head spin just trying to keep up with it all. Which was surprisingly hard to do when so much of it had been piled on at once. I relayed most of this to my honorary grandmother as we sat across from each other at _Cafecito Organico_. She had dropped by on my lunch break. Utilizing my employee discount, I bought a mint tea and cannoli for her and an iced chair latte and cheese danish for me.  
  
        After listening to me rant, Lana shook her head of golden waves. "Abbie, sweetheart, I know you've been through a lot this year, but you do not always need to be the strong one. You're just a child, dear," she told me. Her russet brown eyes shone with a grandmotherly concern.  
  
        I sighed and picked at my danish. "Well, _someone_ has to be strong in that damn house. All everyone else does is run and hide from the problem," I huffed.  
  
        "Your mom never has been too good with confrontation," Lana mused, taking another sip of her tea. "Don't know why that is; both of your grandparents liked to face things head on. Got them into trouble quite a few times, though." She smiled fondly as I assumed she recalled some of the good times she'd had with Mom's parents. I smiled slightly in response, happy that whatever horrors the trio had faced in their past, whatever she and Grandma had refused to discuss, hadn't prevented them from creating some good memories. "But everyone deals with things in their own way, honey, and maybe this is how _they_ deal."  
  
        I refrained from rolling my eyes. Having a psychologist for a father had educated me on such matters, and I understood them fine, but it was difficult for me to be the responsible one in the family. Ben was too ashamed of his affair and usually locked himself away in his office. Mom flitted about the house like a busy bee to keep her mind off of it. Violet had resorted to self-harm and who knows what else to cope with everything. So I did feel like it kind of fell on me to try and make things work for everybody. And recently I've felt I was failing at that as everything just seemed to crumble down around us little by little.  
  
        Groaning quietly, I buried my face in my hands. "Well they need to get their heads out of their asses and deal with it like adults." I lifted my head and looked across the table. "I don't know how much longer I can do it, Lana," I admitted quietly.  
  
        Lana reached across the table and laid her hand over mine. "Abigail, you are a strong young woman; you will be able to overcome so much in your life. But you do not have to do it alone. You always have me, and Marion is more than happy to help. We're just a phone call away, sweetheart," she offered.  
  
        A small smile lit up my face at the mention of Marion. She was Lana's long-term girlfriend -- they'd been together for quite a few years now. I admired their relationship for a couple of reasons. One being because it obviously went against the mainstream and showed society that love didn't exist just between male and female. Another was because they had been together for such a long time and did not feel pressured to take it any further. As long as they, and our family, were concerned, they were as good as married; and what was marriage if not a worthless piece of paper that held no value in comparison.  
  
        "I know," I smiled, squeezing her hand lightly in return. "Thank you."  
  
        Lana nodded her head and checked the watch on her wrist. "Oh! Your break is nearly over. I should get going then." She stood up and collected her items. "Now, you and Violet are welcome over anytime. We missing having you girls around." When I stood up as well, the older woman embraced me and pecked my cheek. "Be good. I love you," she told me.  
  
        "Love you too, Lana," I returned, pulling out of her arms. "Give Marion my love."  
  
        The rest of my shift went by without any complications. My mind was still focused on everything happening at home, but I managed to get through the day with no incidents. I considered Lana's offer for me and Violet coming over sometime. Maybe I could actually get Violet out of the house. She had never been terribly close with Lana or Marion, but a change of scenery would definitely do her some good. Especially since the most scenery she ever got was school and her bedroom; she rarely even left her room anymore. unless it was time for dinner. But, knowing Violet, she would probably prefer to stay in there instead of being social. So I gave up on that idea for now.  
  
        I had just gotten off work when I was caught off guard. Standing at my car, I was digging through my bag for my keys, when suddenly a figure moved in beside me. Their sudden presence made me jump as I turned to look at them. My keys were forgotten when I realized who it was.  
  
        It was Leah. But she wasn't the same Leah I remembered. That Leah had been snobby and brightly dressed. The Leah I was looking at now was sullen and darkly clothed. She had her eyes covered with large black sunglasses. On her head sat a wide-brimmed, purple sun hat. Just peeking out from behind her dull, lifeless-looking hair was the start of a white bandage on her left cheek.  
  
        I blinked in surprise, but before I could say anything to the girl who used to bully my sister, she asked, "Can we go someplace to talk?"  
  
        Which was how I found myself sitting beside her on the ledge of an abandoned swimming pool. Occasionally a skater would roll past as the depth and curves of the structure made for a good skatepark -- and an ideal place for graffiti, judging by all the 'artwork' decorating the walls. Leah sighed and pulled a cigarette out with shaky fingers, bringing the stick of tobacco to her lips and lighting it. I watched silently as she exhaled the smoke into the evening air.  
  
        "I can't sleep," she finally spoke, her voice quiet. "I'm terrified of everything."  
  
        My mouth set in a firm line. It was clear just how much the incident had affected her. She was traumatized. A few sessions with Ben would probably do her some good. Well, some other psychologist. There was no way she was going to set foot inside that house again, and there was no way in hell I was ever going to suggest it. I didn't even want to be there. And after the whole thing in the basement, I hadn't been sleeping well either, afraid that thing that attacked her was going to find its way into my room and attack me next. So I understood somewhat what she was going through.  
  
        "What attacked me wasn't human," she concluded.  
  
        I nodded my head, gazing absentmindedly out at the oblivious skaters rolling by without a care in the world. "I know," I agreed, tucking my lip into my mouth. It hadn't been human. But I didn't what it was either.  
  
        She flicked her cigarette to dispose of the ash. "Which is why you're the only one I can talk to about it." A sigh escaped her. "I had to tell my parents I got jumped by some chola at Melrose who wanted my Chanel. They made me file a fake police report and everything," she said.  
  
        My eyes flicked back to her face. "How deep are the cuts?" I wondered.  
  
        "Deep." Her hand came up to lightly graze the bandage and she shuddered. "God, and I -- I can't stop thinking about that mouth."  
  
        I studied her for a moment, watching her trembling hand bring to lit cigarette to her mouth. When my eyes fell on something odd, I observed, "Your hair . . . it's turned white."  
  
        Barely hidden under the shadow of her hat was a cluster of strands that lacked any color. It was like all the melanin producing her hair's color had given up on that one spot. The white was just a shade darker than the bandage covering her cheek.  
  
        She nodded. "I read on the Internet it's possible for fear to cause that." Her head turned towards me. "Do you believe in the Devil?" she asked.  
  
        The inquiry made me pause. I had never been a particularly religious person. Religion just wasn't a major dynamic of my family. We hadn't even been to church since Grandma's funeral. I had never really thought about what my beliefs were. Did I believe in that stuff? I certainly wasn't opposed to the idea of a higher power. But did that constitute me actually believing in God and the Devil?  
  
        Pressing my lips together, I settled for an honest, "I don't know."  
  
        Leah nodded and took another drag. "Well, I do." She exhaled. "I've looked into his eyes," she added grimly.  
  
        My eyebrows furrowed in concern. I turned my head back to look out over the abandoned pool. An uneasy sensation tightened my stomach uncomfortably into what felt like a coil. Her words echoed in my mind. _I've looked into his eyes_. Whose eyes had she considered to be the Devil's?  
  
        Even as I asked myself the question, one name flashed in the forefront of my mind. It was as vivid as a neon sign.  
  
        Tate.  
  
        Was Tate the Devil? Even if I wasn't certain if I believed in that or not, there was no doubt in my mind that he was dangerous. There was something weird about him. How he had just disappeared from sight within mere seconds, his maniacal laughter, that malicious look in his dark eyes . . . Given what I had seen occur in my basement, I was not about to refute the idea.  
  
        I couldn't sleep that night. After parting ways with Lea and going home, I bid everyone in the house a goodnight and headed straight for bed. The only problem was I wasn't able to fall asleep. My mind was too busy. Thoughts just kept whirring around without pause. Hours had passed since I'd gotten home, and all I'd managed to do is wallow in my troubled mind when I should have been sleeping.  
  
        The house was silent as everyone else had peacefully gone to bed. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional cricket chirping from outside my window, which I had decided to leave open in hopes that the nice breeze would aid in lulling me to sleep. Other than that, there was no noise to be heard aside from the usual hum of electricity running through the walls, which was why I was instantly startled when something tapped against the top glass panel of one of my windows. It was a fairly steady rhythm. Even as I told myself it was just one of the branches from the tree, I couldn't help but dwell on the worry that it wasn't.  
  
        A few more seconds passed before I threw my blankets off and got up to check. A slight chill had settled in my room, one that I hadn't noticed while in bed, but was able to get the full effect of while in my grey tank top, outlined in pink and depicting Mickey Mouse blowing a pink bubble from gum, and corresponding pink sleep shorts with darker polka-dots. The fabric was thinner than I probably should have gone with considering the cooler temperature of my bedroom lately at night. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered slightly as it caused my skin to prickle for the couple seconds of exposure.  
  
        My eyes squinted out into the dark as I came to a stop just in front of my open window. The breeze was enough to offset the generalized California heat, but it was not enough to force any part of the tree to come close enough to the house to make contact. A frown set on my face. I leaned forward slightly to see if I could spot anything outside that would cause that noise, but there was nothing; the tree was the only thing even near my windows. Yet another uneasy feeling washed over me for the umpteenth time since I first laid eyes on this grand structure. Something was not right here. Something was wrong with the house in general -- I just didn't know quite what it was. Biting my lips, I shut my window and took a second to lock it. It was only to make me feel safer about being in my room at night. But it didn't make the uneasiness dissipate any. As an extra measure, I untied the sash from around my curtain and drew the fabric across the window, successfully blocking it from sight.  
  
        A loud thump made me jump slightly in surprise. I whirled around and squinted into the darkness of my room to try and spot the source. My hand flew up to my chest as I searched, my fingers fiddling with my necklace, twisting the golden circle back and forth. The atmosphere of my room suddenly seemed thicker. More crowded. Like I had stepped from an open space into a closet. I felt surrounded. The abrupt change stunned me. My body tensed in response.  
  
        My eyes caught movement coming from my desk. I frowned and watched the picture I had set up next to my computer actually lift and hover above the surface for a second before being flung to the ground. Stunned, I blinked and stared for a few seconds at the fallen photo, unsure if I had really seen what I thought I had or if my sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on me. Finally I swallowed and slowly walked over to where it lay facedown on the carpet. The impact had broken the frame despite my floor being covered in carpet. I brushed aside that and the glass pane before picking up the photo.  
  
        The scene would have brought a smile to my face had it not been for the current circumstances. It had been taken about five years ago in Colorado. The whole family -- including Mom's siblings, and their spouses and children -- had taken a vacation to Colorado for Christmas and New Years. We had stayed at some ski lodge whose name I couldn't remember. Lana and Marion had even driven up from Los Angeles just before Christmas and didn't leave until the rest of us had been ready to depart back to Boston. The photo had been taken on Christmas Eve just in front of the giant fireplace in the lodge's foyer. Everyone was in it: Mom, Ben, ten year old Violet, twelve year old me, Lana, Marion, Grandma Mary, Aunt Jo, Uncle Richard, their four year old Kit and nine year old Judy, Uncle Tommy, Aunt Billie, and their sixteen year old twins Grace and Alma. We were all dressed in these hideous sweaters that Grandma Mary had knitted all of us. They were intentionally ugly; they were supposed to be the type of sweaters that were only acceptable to even think about during the winter holidays.  
  
        With a quiet sigh, I picked up the broken frame and displaced glass, holding it in my hands along with the photo before straightening up and setting it carefully back on the desk. My eyebrows furrowed as I considered how it had been tossed to the ground. I had watched the picture lift off the surface of the desk and hover in place, like someone had picked it up and was looking at it, before it was thrown onto my floor when such force that it broke. That just wasn't logical. It couldn't have happened that way. Clearly my eyes were beginning to play tricks on me because I needed sleep. But, even as I told myself that, I couldn't think of a logical way for the picture to have been swept away from the back of my desk onto the carpet when no one had been near it. There just wasn't a good explanation for it.  
  
        Once again I was brought out of my thoughts by a strange sound originating from somewhere inside my room. This time it was running water. I frowned and turned towards my bathroom, hesitating before actually approaching and opening the door. My hand flicked up to flip the light switch. The space was instantly illuminated and I was able to see clearly that both the sink and the shower were running. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I turned off the sink faucet before turning towards the bathtub, my mind trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for everything. My teeth worried at my bottom lip as my hand reached past the shower curtain and twisted the knob that shut off the stream of water. I kept a grip on it as I lost myself in my thoughts, confused and determined to come up with a plausible explanation.  
  
        My thoughts were once again interrupted. This time by another hand, one I couldn't physically see, shooting out and grabbing my wrist. I sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden contact and yanked my arm back to cradle it against my chest. A beat of silence passed, where my wide eyes remained locked on the shower curtain and my breathing stuttered in my chest, before my fight-or-flight response kicked into gear. I spun on my bare feet and bolted out of the bathroom, not stopping to turn out the light, with my heart racing a million times a second. When I did something all my years of watching horror movies had taught me not to do and looked back over my shoulder, somehow my desk chair had rolled across the carpet and into my path. The rush of air that left my body at the surprise impact as I collided with and fell over it was drowned out by a shrill sound that pierced the air in a series of urgent beeping. It took me a second to put together that it was the home security system we'd had installed. The alarm had been triggered.  
  
        Muffled voices came from the other end of the hall. A door creaked open, and then two pairs of footsteps hurriedly descended the stairs. I continued lying on the carpet, trying to regain the wind that had been knocked out of me when I fell, briefly resting my head against the soft fibers. My eyes snapped up and over at the sound of feet walking across my bedroom floor. There was nothing in my line of sight, which was the direction from which the steps were coming, but they kept approaching my prone form, gradually increasing in volume and intensity until they came to a stop directly beside me. I couldn't make any of my limbs move. It was like I was back down in the basement, watching the events unfold but not being able to do anything about it; my fight-or-flight response needed to choose which instinct upon which to before I got myself into some serious trouble.  
  
        My heart was pounding so hard in my chest I was sure it was audible. I had sucked in a breath and held it in an irrational need to be quiet in order to feel secure. Obviously remaining silent in my situation wasn't going to help me. There was something right at my side. I could sense its presence, but I couldn't actually see it. Seconds passed with no more sound. The alarm had even been deactivated. Then it felt like someone had kneeled down beside me and leant over until they were right at my ear. I could feel a pair of lips brushing against the outer shell with the single syllable that I heard clear as day.  
  
        " _Boo_."  
  
        The whisper was accompanied by a couple of giggles that reverberated around the space. A noise akin to a whimper escaping my throat, I clumsily scrambled up to my feet and lunged for the door, my hand twisting the knob and wrenching it open. There used to be a time when I could truthfully say I didn't believe in ghosts. The idea of someone's spirit or energy remaining after he or she had passed away was ridiculous to me. But now I was prepared to fully reevaluate my beliefs. In fact, after all of that, I was ready to say that our new house had a few resident ghosts living within the walls.  
  
        And I was in no way okay with it. This must have been what Constance had meant when she was talking about the 'bad juju' in the house, when she gave us the sage as a housewarming gift. The sage clearly didn't work. Or maybe I did it wrong. Whatever it was, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. This was stuff that was only meant to be seen on the screen. It wasn't supposed to actually happen. My bare feet padded quickly down the grand staircase until I came to a stop at the midway platform. I gripped the railing and peered down at the foyer where my parents were standing by the front door. In Mom's hands was a wooden baseball bat. She must have grabbed it before coming downstairs to check what had triggered the alarm. I vaguely wondered that myself, but my mind was a bit preoccupied with other things to worry about whether or not someone had broken in or if it was just faulty wiring or a glitch in the system.  
  
        I wrapped my arms around myself and shifted. The wood creaked slightly underneath my weight and alerted my parents. Both pairs of eyes darted up to lock on me. Their bodies visibly relaxed upon realizing it was only me.  
  
        Mom sighed and set the bat down, leaning it against the wall. "Abbie, sweetheart, just go back to bed," she insisted. She started up the stairs towards me.  
  
        "I'm gonna check the house," Ben announced, picking up the bat and holding it firmly in both hands. "You take Abbie back upstairs and call the police."  
  
        Mom nodded her head as Ben walked into the living room. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders and began leading me back upstairs. I hesitated and grabbed her shirt, causing her to stop and look down at me with concern. "What's wrong?"  
  
        Chewing the inside of my cheek, I admitted quietly, "I'm scared."  
  
        She frowned and tightened her grip on me, giving my shoulders a slight squeeze. "Oh, honey, I'm sure it was just a false alarm. We're just making sure so we know you girls aren't in danger," she soothed raising her hand and brushing some hair away from my face. Her cerulean eyes shone with the worry she wasn't sharing.  
  
        I shook my head. "That's not it . . . I -- I don't want to go back in my room. I can't go back in there. Not tonight." The tears finally spilled over until they were trickling in rivulets over my cheeks. "I hate it here, Mom. I can't sleep, I'm afraid to be alone, especially at night . . . I wanna go home," I cried. Even through my emotions, I was careful to keep my voice quiet as to not wake Violet from her slumber, which was hopefully more peaceful than mine had been recently.  
  
        Mom's face crumpled in sympathy as she listened to cracked voice. Her arms wound around me and pulled me against her, holding me tight as I returned the embrace, burying my face in her shoulder. She raised a hand and cradled the back of my head. Her soft voice shushed me as her body rocked slightly in an attempt to soothe me.  
  
        I hadn't been comforted like this in a long time. It was like I was a little girl again, having just run into my parents' room after having a nightmare and being lifted up on to the bed, curling up between them for the rest of the night. She would cradle me to her and pet down my hair until I had fallen back asleep. I missed that. These days I was the one who seemed to do most of the comforting. It was nice to be the held for once.  
  
        "Oh, sweetheart, I know you miss Boston," she crooned, her arms holding me tighter still. "I miss it too, but this is our home now." She pulled away form me and continued leading me up the stairs, letting me lean on her. "Come on, let's just get you back to bed." When I shook my head in protest, she amended, "You can sleep in our room tonight, baby, okay?"  
  
        She steered me to the right and into her and Ben's room, which was a safe distance away from mine. I crawled into the bed and under the blankets. Mom laid down beside me and stroked my hair like she used to do. Even as I felt my eyelids gradually become heavier, I thought about confessing to the reason I didn't want to sleep in my room. But my mom had never believed in that stuff either. I didn't want to be brushed off or told that I was just making excuses.  
  
        So I just let my eyes closed and allowed myself to relax. I focused on the soothing sensation of my mom's hand smoothing the back of my hair. It wasn't long before I slipped into a much needed slumber.

* * *

**I realize this is probably not the best written chapter. I've been working on it for a while and kept getting frustrated with the last segment. Hopefully it's okay, though, at least good enough to be passable. I'll probably come back to it later and edit, clean it up a bit.**   
  
**On that note, this story is unedited, so please excuse any grammar, punctuation, or spelling errors.**


	11. Home Invasion

_'Scarlett was his wife and a wife was entitled to the loyalty of her husband. Furthermore, he could not bring himself to believe she had married him coldly and with no affection for him at all. His masculine vanity would not permit such a thought to stay long in his mind. It was more pleasant to think --'_  
  
        A gentle rapping stole my attention away from the riveting perspective of Rhett Butler. My eyes darted up to see my mother standing in my doorway, her knuckles still resting on the wood of the frame and a hopeful smile on her face. I raised a brow at the expression. It was the same look I gave either her or Ben when I wanted something. She was obviously the parent from whom I inherited it.  
  
        A small smile creeped onto my face. I placed my index finger on the yellowing page to mark my spot. My eyes remained on her, watching how she straightened her fingers and started drumming them against the doorframe, her nails clicking rhythmically against the wood. Her smile broadened slightly when she noticed she had my attention.  
  
        "Since your dad's out of town, I was thinking maybe we could pop in a movie and have a little girl's night," she said, shrugging her shoulders but keeping the hopeful expression. "You know, like we used to; just the two of us."  
  
        I smiled wider at the thought. Mom and I used to stay up real late watching numerous Disney films when I was younger. Violet had never really gotten into it, so it was always just the two of us. We would camp out in the living room with a bowl of popcorn and make a pallet of blankets on the floor in front of the television. We hadn't done that since I was fourteen. I was surprised that she was offering to do it again, but I wasn't going to turn down the opportunity.  
  
        It was just us girls in the house tonight anyway. Ben had gotten a call while I was at work. Apparently one of his former patients, a girl named Ginny Blevins, tried to commit suicide. He had flown back to Boston to offer his assistance. At least that's what Mom relayed to me from what he had told her. I personally didn't believe it. That patient would have been assigned to another psychiatrist by now. She would no longer be Ben's concern, therefore I could see no reason as to why the would call to inform him of her relapse. I suspected that he had snuck off to be with his prized pupil for a couple of days. But I didn't say this out loud; I didn't want to upset Mom, especially not when things between them had seemed to be running smoother than usual recently. Which was also the reason I had decided to keep that little scene I'd witnessed between him and Moira to myself.  
  
        So I just nodded my head and kept my smile. Using the attached string to save my page and gently shutting the novel I held in my hands, I agreed, "Sounds like a date. Is Vi not up to joining?"  
  
        Mom laughed lightly and shook her head. "No. She's not too happy with me right now." She sighed. "Well, come help me pick a movie, then," she said.  
  
        As I stood and slid _Gone with the Wind_ back into its proper position on my bookshelf, I wondered to myself if she had told Violet about her condition. I suspected that maybe that was the reason she wanted to do this tonight. With Ben out gallivanting in Boston, it created the perfect opportunity for Mom to tell Violet and me that she was pregnant. Violet probably hadn't taken it too well. If I knew my sister as well as I thought I did, then I was positive she had lashes out at our mother for getting pregnant at a time like this, when none of us were sure how sturdy our family actually was. When everything could fall apart at the drop of a hat. She probably thought Mom was weak for allowing herself to hope that the baby would be the glue to reunite us all. I wouldn't blame her if she did think that.  
  
        But I guess I just had a slightly different perspective on the situation than my sister. It would be a lie if I were to say that I was looking forward to this pregnancy. After Joel, I was a little wary. I didn't want to get my hopes up, and I didn't want anyone else to either. Especially Mom. She was a very strong woman, and I had always admired her for that, but I didn't think she would be able to survive another tragedy. She barely made it through the last time. I was afraid of what she would do if she lost this child as well. I was terrified of what would happen to this family if we were forced to suffer through another loss like that.  
  
        Keeping my expression neutral and my smile small, I turned back to Mom and followed her out of my room, my mind still preoccupied with my worries and concerns. I flipped off the light as I left and shut the door firmly behind me. It had taken a good while for me to gather up the courage to cross the threshold again after what I'd experienced the night before. Mom, without knowing why I was scared to go back in there, was the only reason I was able to do it. She stayed by my side as I'd hurriedly changed into my uniform that morning. She'd questioned once what had gotten into me, but after I'd made it clear I didn't want to talk about it yet, she'd dropped it and just remained for support. Going back in after I'd returned from work was a little easier because I knew I had her behind me -- metaphorically at that point. But I still had to keep my door open and easily accessible before I could comfortably settled down and lose myself once again in the world of Scarlett O'Hara's spoiled selfishness and Rhett Butler's devotion for the Southern belle.  
  
        My eyes landed on something set outside Violet's closed door. A small chocolate cupcake, topped with a purple candied flower, placed delicately on a white plate. Nodding towards the sweet, I asked curiously, "What's that?"  
  
        Mom paused and followed my gaze. When she spotted when I was talking about, she sighed. "Oh, that's just a little something our kooky neighbor Constance had sent over for Vi. She thought the little Violet was clever," she added. She shrugged, but I could tell that she was reminded of the argument I'm sure they'd had earlier, and she was still hurt by whatever my sister had said to her.  
  
        I found it odd that Constance had sent over a cupcake for Violet. Even more so that she had taken the time to add the little detail of the candied violet. It wasn't like those two were close or anything. I didn't even think they had ever talked to each other aside from a brief introduction. Constance didn't really seem like the type of woman to do these things out of neighborly love. From what little I knew about her, which was very little, she wasn't a person who would go out of her way to make nice. Maybe she would plaster on a polite mask, but this was more than just being polite. This was strange. I was relieved that Violet had decided against eating it for whatever reason.  
  
        "That was nice of her," I commented lightly as we headed for the master bedroom. "Did she say why?"  
  
        "Uh, yeah, she said it was to apologize for her daughter," Mom answered before turning to me. "Speaking of which, did you know Addie is in her _thirties?_ "  
  
        My eyes darted up at that piece of information. Adelaide Langdon had kept up with her apparent habit of sneaking into the house. Mom and Ben had grown irritated at her, but despite the fact that she proved the house was worryingly easy to break into on numerous occasions, I found no problem with her. I was willing to look past that because of her condition. And she really was a sweet girl when you got down to it. But I had assumed she was closer to my age. To find out she was actually closer to my mom's age surprised me. Maybe her Down Syndrome had just made her look like she was in her late teens or early twenties. I didn't know if that had anything to do with it, or if it was the cute dresses she always wore, or if I was just that bad at estimating age.  
  
        Flopping down on the feet on my parents' bed and turning on my side, curling my legs up and holding my head up with my palm, I stated, "You're kidding."  
  
        Mom's head of blonde hair shook back and forth as she kneeled down by the small television she must have grabbed from the closet for tonight. "Constance told me so herself." She started sorting through a cardboard box that held our VHS movies; we kept the DVDs on a shelf down in the living room with the big TV. "So what are we gonna watch tonight?" she asked me.  
  
        "Well, there's always _Gone with the Wind_ ," I suggested.  
  
        A small laugh made her shoulders shake slightly. She shook her head in amusement. "Abbie, you have seen _and_ read that like, a hundred times," she chuckled.  
  
        "So? It's a classic!"  
  
        "Come on, pick something we haven't seen in a while."  
  
        We argued for a bit more on that. After sorting through our collection, putting aside the classics like _Gone with the Wind_ and _Titanic_ , which I readily disagreed with because I didn't feel like crying tonight, we finally settled on one of our personal favorites. _Grease._ It was still considered a classic.  
  
        Mom took a moment to set up our VHS player while I made myself comfortable and scooted myself up to rest against the headboard. I took a second to lean over the side and pick up Hallie, setting her on the mattress and petting her when she curled up beside me. Once everything was ready, Mom popped in the movie and turned out the lights so we were bathed in the light of that familiar blue screen. She brought both remotes -- the universal one programmed to the television and the one that came with the VHS player -- with her when she copied my position next to me.  
  
        Stopping the tape just after fast forwarding through all the previews, going from the Paramount Pictures introduction back to the blue screen, Mom took a breath and said, "There was something I wanted to talk to you girls about."  
  
        And there it was. I had a feeling this had just been an excuse to finally confess to the pregnancy. Since Violet had declined, and had probably already confronted Mom about it, that left me. She didn't know that I had already figured it out. That I had put together the pieces and connected the dots a little over a week ago. I considered telling her I had known for a while now, but I could see how important it was for her to finally tell me. So I let her reveal the 'secret.'  
  
        Smiling lightly, I joked, "So you didn't just want to spend time with your daughter? I knew there was a catch."  
  
        Her returning smile was a little tense, but she knocked my shoulder with hers anyway. "Ha ha. But seriously, Abbie, we need to talk." She reached over and laid her hand on my knee. "I know it's been a rough year for you and your sister, but the both of you have been so strong, and I am so proud." Her chest heaved as she took a deep breath. "We moved here for a fresh start, and I think we've finally gotten one." I kept quiet as she steeled herself for her next words. "I'm pregnant," she concluded.  
  
        I searched for the right thing to say. Or at least for the right reaction to the news. Should I pretend to be happy for her? Pretend to be shocked? Or should I just be honest? I was always honest with her. I wanted to tell her what I thought of her news. But I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Next to Violet, she was the most important person in my life, and the last thing I wanted to do was be the one to cause her pain.  
  
        So I just smiled and said, "Yeah, I know. I figured it out a while ago."  
  
        Her face fell at my admission. "So are you gonna have a go at me like your sister then?" She took back her hand and started absentmindedly picking at her nails.  
  
        Immediately feeling guilty at the obvious hurt in her voice, despite not having actually done anything, I frowned and shook my head. "No. No, I -- I think it's great. It's exciting, Mom. I mean, this baby could be the beginning of that 'fresh start' you mentioned. I'm really happy for you," I lied.  
  
        It turned out that lying wasn't so hard after all. Not when it was being done to spare her feelings. I had been hoping to avoid any dialogue where I would have to choose between that and honesty, but after realizing how much my sister had wounded her with whatever she said, I couldn't bring myself to upset her further. The words had just tumbled out without me thinking about them. All I knew was that I didn't want to cause her anymore pain. I had subconsciously picked the words I knew would make her happy to hear.  
  
        She seemed to accept my response. We exchanged a few more words on the subject before settling in to watch the movie. My eyes slowly became heavier with each interaction between the characters. I repositioned myself so I was more on my side, curling my torso around Hallie so I wouldn't wake the sleeping canine, and dropped my head so it was resting against Mom's abdomen. Her arm draped over me. She started lightly dragging her nails up and down my side like I remember her doing to my back whenever I couldn't get to sleep. I brought my own hand up and laid it on her stomach, my mind focusing on the little life growing inside her womb even as I gave into the invisible weights and closed my eyes.  
  
        The doorbell being run made my eyes fly open. It took me a moment to gather my bearings. My head was now resting against a pillow, but I was still tucked into my mom's side, and her arm was still draped over me. Hallie had moved up so she was curled against my chest. Her head had shot up to attention at the sound echoing through the large house. The final verses of _We Go Together_ were coming from the television's speakers as Danny and Sandy danced their way through the school carnival.  
  
        Mom sighed and lifted her arm off of me as she swung her legs off the side of the bed. The movement caused me to groan as her warmth was removed from my side. She smiled over at me and patted my hip. "Go on to bed, Abbie."  
  
        I groaned again and stretched out on the mattress. She pushed herself up and headed downstairs to see who was ringing the bell. My eyes wandered over to the digital clock sitting on the nightstand. It was a quarter past ten. As I gave Hallie a quick scratch behind her ear and forced myself to climb out of my parents' bed, I wondered who would be at our door so late at night.  
  
        After dragging my tired feet down the hall, I could hear Mom's voice floating up from the foyer. No words were discernible. I opened my door and instantly hit the lights. As I started peeling off my work clothes, my mom's voice called out for me and Violet. It sounded urgent. I heard Violet's door open and a snarky tone in response. I didn't think too much of it, thinking that maybe Violet had acted out and left the evidence lying around, until I was standing in just my black panties and rummaging through my clothes for a shirt to sleep in while holding the plaid, black and white bottoms I had picked out; that was when Mom's voice had risen and thickened in panic as she demanded Violet to call the police. Light footsteps scampered back up the stairs in response.  
  
        I dropped the bottoms and grabbed the first shirt my hand touched -- it was a plain, grey t-shirt. My heart rate picking up its speed, I slipped the shirt over my head and threw open my door. Violet had just reached her room again. She turned to face me before going back inside. Her hazel eyes were clouded in fear, her gradually maturing features drawn in unadulterated worry and concern. Before I could utter a single syllable, she shook her head and demanded in a hushed voice, "Lock your door and call the police!"  
  
        Her door shut behind her. The clicking of her lock echoed softly as it was twisted and latched in the tumblers. As much as I wanted to heed my sister's words, I couldn't bring myself to hide away in my room while my mother was still downstairs, pregnant and potentially in danger. She could be hurt. Violet was safe in her room; she could call the cops and get help. I couldn't let my mother be alone down there with the slightest chance she could be hurt.  
  
        Swallowing my fear and embracing the need to protect my family, I made a run for the staircase. My fingers had barely grazed the polished wood of the banister when I was yanked away. An arm wrapped around my waist as a hand came up to cover my mouth, causing my shout to be muffled. Whoever had grabbed me had dragged my struggling form into the linen closet just on the other side of the staircase. The door swung closed just as a scream came from downstairs and a thump came from Violet's room.  
  
        My captor allowed me to wrestle away from the hold. I quickly turned around and was just able to make out a familiar form through the darkness. It was faint; tall and lean with a mop of shaggy hair. My heart jumped into my throat as I recognized him. He pressed his index finger to his mouth, quietly shushing me when I went to speak just as we heard a door open, followed by a series of thumps and curses. The small crack left between the door and the frame allowed me to see someone forcefully dragging my sister down the stairs. She was fighting them all the way.  
  
        My mouth went dry. "Oh my God," I muttered.  
  
        I went to push the door open, but Tate quickly grabbed my hand in his own, stopping me from making contact with the wood. He continued to hold it as he whispered, "You can't go out there, Abbie. There's three from what I saw. You can't fight them all."  
  
        Hearing the commotion downstairs, I felt my adrenaline spike to a new level. Ripping my hand away from him, I hissed, "My family is in danger, Tate! I can't just cower in a closet and let things play out and hope that help comes! _I_ have to help them!"  
  
        "And you can, by staying here and not getting yourself in trouble!" He reached down and grabbed my hands, raising them until he was properly holding them. "I have a plan, okay? But that plan _doesn't_ involve you getting caught too. And if you go out in just that, I can't imagine what the guy down there will do to you." His words reminded me that I was dressed only in a thin shirt that stopped just above my hips, showing the black lace and the tiny pink bow on my underwear; I was too worried about my family and irritated that Tate was stopping me from helping them to be embarrassed of being dressed so scantily while being in close quarters with the boy I had recently deemed a psychopath. "Please, _please,_ promise me that you'll stay here."  
  
        His hands let go of mine to trail up my arms until they were lightly gripping my shoulders. Even in the dark, I could see the emotion in those dark orbs, drawing me in. In that moment, he wasn't the psychopath I had branded him down in the basement; I saw him as someone who was willing to put himself in danger in order to help us. But I was snapped back to my senses by my mother screaming my sister's name. He couldn't keep me from helping them. Nothing in the world could stop me from protecting my family.  
  
        My jaw clenched. "I am _not_ staying in here --"  
  
        "No, Abigail!" Tate snapped, his voice dangerously close to a volume that would have travelled downstairs. "You _need_ to stay put! I can't have you --!" He closed his eyes and sighed before moving his hands so they were cradling my face tenderly, his eyes reopening to look into mine, causing my breath to catch in my throat. "Abbie, please, I need you to stay safe. I promise I won't let anything happen to your mom or sister." His fingers gently brushed my hair back, tucking the strands behind my ear. "Please, Abbie -- just trust me."  
  
        Before I could react, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to my forehead, lingering there for a second before releasing me and exiting the closet, shutting the door firmly behind him. My eyes remained locked on the empty space he'd left behind. But I wasn't thinking about Tate; I was thinking about how I was going to save my family. Tate may have wanted me to stay hidden away in this closet while he played the hero, but I couldn't do that when there was a chance he would fail. I had to put my family first. They meant everything to me.  
  
        There was nothing in this linen closet save for spare towels and sheets. The nearest weapon was probably the baseball bat in the master bedroom. But my phone was also in my room. I could finally call the police and report the invasion. Or I could go for the bat and beat my way through to my mother and sister. Tate said there were three that he had seen. I could take them, right? If they didn't have weapons. Knives would probably be okay, but if even one of them had a gun, I could be a victim before I ever had the chance to be a survivor.  
  
        Hearing footsteps coming back up the stairs, I made my decision and lunged out of the closet as quick as I could, bolting towards my parents' room. I partially closed the door behind me. It was left ajar with a space just big enough for me to peer out into the hall but small enough to where I hopefully wouldn't be seen. I peeked through the crack to see a woman with dark auburn hair leading Violet towards the communal bathroom with a knife held warningly at the small of her back. The woman was carrying a lump of white fabric under her arm. My eyes snapped towards the stairs when another woman came up after them. Her hair was blonde, and she also held a knife in her hand, twirling it was she headed in my direction as opposed to following her friend.  
  
        My heart jumped into my throat as her figure came closer and closer to the master bedroom. Panicking, I searched the area for a good place to hide before using a last resort spot: under the bed. I swiftly dropped to the floor and scooted underneath, having just enough time to make sure none of my limbs were visible before the door was pushed open. The sound of running water came from the bathroom. I bit my lips as my mind immediately registered it was probably the bathtub; they were going to drown my baby sister. It took all of my willpower to remain silent and still as I watched the blonde's feet step around the room. Various items were moved around and rummaged through as I assumed she was trying to find some of Mom's jewelry or something else of value.  
  
        "Hey, Fiona!" the woman suddenly called out, surprising me as she'd had yet to say a word while in my presence. "I think they have another kid!" My heart nearly stopped as I realized she must have been looking at one of the family photos Mom had there in the bedroom. "She might still be in the house!"  
  
        A tense beat passed before the other woman, Fiona, shouted back, "Then find her! Go down and tell Dallas to keep an eye out!"  
  
        The woman in the room headed back down the hall. I waited a moment until I was sure she wasn't going to be returning before crawling out from underneath the bed. After carefully shutting the door again, just in case Fiona decided to come out of the bathroom or her friend came back, I started looking for the baseball bat that Mom had grabbed the previous night when the alarm had been triggered. Surely Ben would have brought it back up when he was finished checking for the source.  
  
        I dug to the back of their closet and nearly laughed in relief when I found it lying on the floor. Grabbing it, I tested its weight, trying to gauge how hard I would have to swing it to at least stun one of them enough to get to my family. As I was doing this, Fiona's voice once again echoed through the hall. "Bianca, it's almost time!"  
  
        Despite the space and layers of plaster and insulation, I could make out Violet's voice, but it was muffled and indiscernible; it was overpowered by the still running water. Time was running low. Soon there wouldn't be any left for me to act. If I was going to save them, save my sister from being drowned, I had to do something _now_. My hands gripped the handle of the bat tightly as I lifted it to rest on my right shoulder. I grabbed the doorknob in my left hand and was about to pull the door all the way open when footsteps started leaving the bathroom. Two pairs; one was harder, made with solid soles, and the other was softer and wet-sounding. Pulling back, I watched through the crack as Fiona held my sister at knife-point once again, this time directing her back downstairs. Violet's clothes had been changed to a white nurse's uniform with matching tights.  
  
        I waited until I couldn't hear them anymore before opening the door. The hallway appeared empty. There was the corner where Bianca could be lurking, and all the rooms, but I just made sure I kept the bat in a tight grip and headed towards my room. Now that I had my weapon and Violet had been taken back downstairs, for whatever reason the woman had, I was going for my phone. Clearly no one had managed to call the police yet; it fell on me to do so.  
  
        "Hey . . ." At the weak voice, I turned to see Bianca. She looked pained, bent over at the waist and clutching at her stomach; she looked like she was about to be sick. "You -- You're the -- the other -- You're not supposed to -- to be here . . ."  
  
        The woman staggered towards me, a hand held over her mouth. My grip on the bat tightened. She looked like she was about to collapse at any given moment. I knew I could outrun her, but I didn't want to alert the other two to my position. As far as they knew, I was still hiding, or maybe they had given up and decided I wasn't in the house at all. No one had been actively looking for me as far as I knew. But Bianca, she had been the one to realize there was someone else in the family, someone who was possibly still hanging around. And here she was, weak and obviously ill, still approaching me with a confidence no one in her position should have.  
  
        When she was within striking distance, I felt my muscles uncoil and saw the bat swing, my arms leading the movement. The wooden shaft connected with the side of her head. Just as I was able to feel the vibrations reverberate in my hands, she was struck again, this time by the blade of an axe in her abdomen. Red instantly spurted from the wound. I felt something warm hit my face as I turned in shock to see her second assailant. My eyes widened marginally as I watched him yank the axe out of her just to swing it forth again just as violently. More red splattered.  
  
        Standing there, splattered in this woman's blood, I knew I should be horrified. I had just watched an axe be imbedded in her stomach and essentially cut her in half. But I didn't feel anything akin to that. I wasn't disgusted or repulsed, horrified or appalled. Instead, I felt a sense of pride that, even though I had not been the one holding the axe, I had fought back against the one who intended to bring harm to my family. A small thrill ran through me at the bloody sight. It scared me that it made me feel almost _exhilarated_.  
  
        I was snapped out of my thoughts by his hand wrapping around my upper arm. He yanked me towards my room, causing me to drop my bat, as he dragged the axe in his free hand. "Damn it! I told you to stay put!" he growled. With a final tug, he roughly swung me into my room. The force caused me to stumble over my feet.  
  
        "And _I_ told _you_ I wasn't going to do that!" I retorted. "They were going to drown her, Tate!"  
  
        "I handled it, Abigail! I told you I had a plan! You could've been hurt!"  
  
        Frustrated, and realizing I shouldn't waste my time arguing with him when they were still in the house, I huffed and ran over to where I last had my phone. It wasn't there. It wasn't anywhere around there. It had just disappeared. An irritated growl escaped me as I concluded that one of the intruders must have taken it. Either Bianca or Fiona had it. I cussed and pushed past Tate, who quickly grabbed my arm again and stopped me.  
  
        Pulling me back to him, he snapped, "You aren't going back out there; I'll take care of it."  
  
        Before I could say anything in response to that, my mother's voice carried up to me, my name on her lips. My heart soared. Wrenching my arm from Tate's grip, I bolted from my room, my bare feet skipping down the steps as I shouted back to her. The sight of her face was enough to make me jump the last few steps and fly into her arms. She quickly pulled back and looked at me, her eyes filling with tears as she took in the blood splatters on me.  
  
        "What -- what is this?" she fretted, her gaze roaming up and down, taking in the spots of red and my half-dressed state. "Oh my God, baby, are you hurt?"  
  
        "It's not mine," I assured her before glancing around quickly. "Where's Violet?"  
  
        Her teary eyes widened at the worry in my voice. "I -- I thought she was with you!"  
  
        Violet's voice suddenly yelled out for us. Mom grabbed my hand as we ran towards it. My sister had just run up from the basement when we found her. Her eyes were rimmed in red. Wasting no time, my free hand darted out and wrapped around hers, pulling her along as the three of us ran out of the house with screams and cries for help. I don't know how far away from that house we had run before someone stopped to help us, but as I sat in their home with a blanket wrapped around me while they called the police, my mother and sister on either side of me, I knew I couldn't go back there.  
  
        Everything about that house was bad. That night had been traumatic, horrific. It was an ode to more to come. We had to get out of there before it was too late.

* * *

**I hope Tate wasn't too out of character in this chapter.**   
  
**A/N: Inspiration for this chapter comes from Tremble's 'In the Murder House' on Quotev.**


	12. Thank You

**Warning: Sexual content.**

* * *

  
People adopted different methods when dealing with the aftermath of a traumatic event. Some turned to their faith and devote every fiber of their being to whichever deity they believed in. Others forced themselves to mingle with friends or go out to try and forget, even if just for a little while. Normally I would make myself go on as usual. Maybe I would hide for a little while, keep out of sight until I could compose myself, but then I would head back out into the world. This was because I had to be the strong one in my family. Letting them see me as anything but wasn't acceptable.  
  
        This time was different. I was tired of being the only one not allowed to lock themselves away until they were ready to face the world again; I was tired of being the only one not allowed to go out and just do something stupid and reckless in an attempt to cope. If I was allowed to do any of that, everything could fall apart because there'd be no one there to keep anyone _else_ from doing something stupid and reckless. But I was done being that person. So I isolated myself in my bedroom and refused to speak for the majority of the day.  
  
        Ben had come home when he was notified of what had happened. He played the part of the caring husband and father, but I couldn't bring myself to buy it. Not when I knew why he had been away. Police had been coming and going all day, traipsing through the house and collecting evidence, finishing up their investigation with a series of questioning. I had repeated my story so many times that it had begun to sound rehearsed.  
  
        We were given information in exchange. It had all been some attempt to recreate a murder that took place in the house back in 1968. Apparently the trio had an obsession with infamous L.A. murders and had created a little 'club' with the sole intention of reenacting them. The blonde woman, Bianca, had seen Ben that seemingly normal Wednesday morning to case the house. She had been found six blocks away -- nearly cut in half, they had said. The theory was that she ran and her friends, who had up and disappeared, pulled a 'Black Dahlia' on her.  
  
        I didn't know what had happened to Fiona and Dallas, but I knew they weren't the ones who killed her. However, I kept my mouth shut. I had even lied to the police about the blood. As far as they knew, I had been caught in the crossfire during an argument between Bianca and Fiona, one that ultimately led to the redhead turning on the blonde. The only thing I mentioned concerning Tate was that he had helped us escape; that was all I felt the need to say, and that had only been to Mom two nights ago when it happened. He could have gotten in so much trouble if I'd told the complete truth.  
  
        As soon as I was no longer needed for my statement, I had retired to my room, even shutting my door behind me so I could be alone. My boss had given me until Monday before I had to be back into work. So I had three more days total of isolation. And I planned to take full advantage of it.  
  
        Currently I was sitting on my bed. My legs were hugged to my chest as I turned the bottle over in my hand. I debated on whether or not to take one. It was intended to relieve anxiety and induce sleep. Those were two things from which I could benefit. But I didn't know how it would affect me once it kicked in. Would I feel ill? Would it cause insomnia instead?  
  
        A sharp knocking at my door brought me out of my thoughts. I shoved the sample bottle under my pillow just as Ben opened it and let himself into my room without an invitation. My eyes refused to meet his, lowering instead to my hand as my fingers plucked at my grey sweatpants, absently playing with the strings.  
  
        "Hey." His voice was hesitant as he perched himself on the edge of my mattress. "How are you holding up?" He sighed when I remained silent. "Look, Abbie, your mom said you told her that Tate helped you guys get out. Is that true?" My only response was a tightening of my jaw, but his observant eyes caught the movement, and it was enough of a confirmation for him. "What was he doing in the house?"  
  
        The stern question evoked a scoff from me. It shouldn't matter to him why Tate was there. Tate saved us. We could have _died_ if Tate hadn't found his way inside the house Wednesday night. I didn't even know why he was there, but it didn't matter to me. The point was he had been there. I could never thank him enough for the way he risked his life to save my mom and sister.  
  
  
        Chewing the inside of my cheek, I muttered, "It doesn't matter."  
  
        With another sigh, this one heavy with frustration, he said, "I told you to stay away from him, Abigail, so why was he here that night?"  
  
        I finally turned to look at him. Judging by the way he subtlety flinched back, my gaze was sharp. "I know what you're thinking, but I didn't let him inside. I don't even know why he was here. But you know what? I'm glad he was. Because you _weren't_ , Ben. You were off with your whore in Boston. She must be a pretty damn good lay if she's worth our lives."  
  
        He was taken aback by my words. Maybe I would have been too, had the circumstances been different. But I was so sick of all of it. Nobody in the house dealt with anything. I was tired of pretending everything was okay for the sake of my family when we all knew it was just one huge lie we'd concocted to make life a little more tolerable. But it just made everything worse.  
  
        This was the first time I actually said what was on my mind. It was the first time I had ever called my father by his name to his face. The first time I even mentioned Hayden out loud to him. He knew he'd lost all my trust when I'd found out, but I think this was the first time he realized he'd also lost my respect. Hurt crossed his expression.  
  
        Neither of us said anything for a second. Ben's eyes had dropped to the duvet. My own gaze had fallen on my nails. They weren't very pretty to look at; the cuticles had been picked at and were torn and ragged. I knew I should feel bad for what I said to Ben. In a way, I did. But I also knew he'd had it coming. None of us brought up the affair if we could help it. I wouldn't have said anything if he hadn't snuck off to see his mistress and lied to Mom about it. It was all on him.  
  
        Finally he just stood up from the bed and went to leave the room. But he paused at the door. "Despite how you feel, I'm still your father, Abigail," he reminded me. "And I do love this family. I hope you'll realize that one day." The door shut behind him. He never even looked at me.  
  
        I rolled my eyes. He had a funny way of showing he cared. Maybe I would have believed it had he not been buried between the thighs of a twenty-two year old while we had been fighting for our lives. Last time I checked, that was not how people showed they cared. That was a good way for a family to split up.  
  
        With a huff, I climbed out of bed and went to my door, locking it. All I wanted was to be alone. There was no way I'd be able to do that if they could just barge in whenever they wanted. I sat back down and reached under my pillow, pulling out the white cylindrical container I'd been considering earlier. Before, I hadn't been sure if I was going to try it, but after that, nothing was going to stop me.  
  
        Twisting the cap off, I tilted the bottle until a single pill, light blue and oval-shaped, fell into the palm of my hand. I hid the bottle in my nightstand before examining the pill. Alprazolam, a benzodiazepine commonly known as Xanax. I had stolen a sample from Ben's office. The dosage of one of these pills was one milligram; I figured it was enough for my first time. Taking a breath, I popped it in my mouth and swallowed it dry, thankful for the small size.  
  
        No sooner had I swallowed there was another knock. This one came from my window. A confused frown on my face, I walked over and pulled the curtain back, blinking in surprise when I saw Tate straddling the branch closest to the house. He gestured for me to open the window. After thinking about it for a second, I slid it open for him.  
  
        "How the hell do you even get up there?" I asked. "There aren't any branches down there for you to climb."  
  
        He grinned. "I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." I grimaced slightly at the joke, not finding it too humorous after recent events, as he maneuvered inside and sat on the sill. "Right. Sorry. Uh, I just wanted to check on you," he admitted.  
  
        A small smile found its way to my face at his concern. "I'm fine. Just kind of want to be alone, you know?" I shrugged.  
  
        It wasn't that I didn't want him there. Yes, I wanted to be alone, but that didn't mean I wanted him to leave either. It was more that I didn't know if the Xanax would make me drowsy when it finally kicked him. I would feel horrible if I passed out on him. Or if the medicine affected me in some other way; I just didn't want to be like, a bad hostess or anything.  
  
        My chest tightened as his face fell. "Oh. Well, if you want me to go . . ."  
  
        "No," I protested, a little too quickly, causing me to clear my throat as my cheeks heated slightly. "I mean, I just took something for anxiety and I don't know when it's gonna kick in or how it's gonna affect me, but you can stay . . . if you want." Wrapping my arms around myself, I sat down on the edge of my bed and bit my lip, not looking at him. "I want -- I don't want you to leave."  
  
        And I didn't. Ever since we had moved here, I had felt isolated from the rest of my family. Violet had been pulling away. Mom already had too much to worry about. Ben, even if I had wanted to spend time with him, was always too busy with one thing or another. I'd had next to nobody. But Tate was there. Through the times he had snuck into my room, and despite the incident in the basement, Tate had somehow worked his way into my life. He made me feel like I wasn't alone. And I really needed that right now.  
  
        A beat passed before he moved from the window to sit beside me on the bed. I brought my legs up to my chest and picked at the frayed sleeve of my pink sugar skull sweatshirt. His arm slowly found its way around my shoulders. He gently pulled me closer to him. My head fell to rest on his shoulder.  
  
        As I felt him lean his head on mine, he said quietly, "Then I won't go anywhere, if that's what you want."  
  
        I don't know how long we stayed like that. Neither of us said anything more, seemingly content to just be in each other's company. It was a comfortable silence. One I knew would have to be broken sooner or later. We couldn't just sit there all night. Plus I did want to thank him. Properly, since this was the first chance I'd gotten to do so. I just had to figure out a way to do it. A simple 'thank you' wouldn't suffice.  
  
        My body curled further into his side with a content sigh. Embracing the relaxation that had finally stemmed from the pill, I nuzzled my head into his shoulder, closing my eyes and smiling lightly when he shifted to hold me closer. Maybe it was the drug distributing through my system, but I couldn't deny how nice it felt to be held close. How safe it made me feel to know that someone was there. That he was there.  
  
        It was hard for me to comprehend. We hadn't known each other too long. We certainly hadn't spent a lot of time together. Hell, we barely even knew each other. All I knew about him was that his name was Tate, he was seventeen, he used to hang out in our house when it was empty, his father had left when he was around ten, he used to self-harm, and he was seeing a psychiatrist -- my father -- presumably for his psychotic tendencies. That last bit should have been enough to scare me off, and for a while there it had, but he always drew me back in. He knew even less about me, yet he always seemed to find a way into my life. Whether that be by sneaking into my bedroom whenever it suited his convenience or saving my family from being slaughtered in a macabre recreation of an infamous murder.  
  
        My train of thought was interrupted by a series of giggles. It took me a second to process that they were coming from me, and when they were, I couldn't seem to stop. It was just kind of funny. I'd always been the logical, sensible one in the family. The girl who relied more on fact than faith. I used to pride myself on being able to remain rational in stressful situation. Now I was just a mess. It was amusing because all it took was one boy to cause that. A boy that I hardly even knew, but who was willing to put himself in danger just to help me. A sweet boy who had clawed his way into my heart somewhere during the three or four times we'd actually talked.  
  
        Okay, so it wasn't funny. There was nothing amusing about that. I didn't know why I was laughing. But I couldn't help it.  
  
        "What's so funny?" Tate asked, his voice laced with confusion.  
  
        Shaking my head, I replied through the ongoing giggles, "Nothing."  
  
        And that was true. Nothing about this situation was funny. At least not in the tradition sense. Maybe it was a little funny, ironically funny, that I was curled up in the arms of the boy I had deemed a psychopath. That I felt _safe_ in his hold.  
  
        My answer only seemed to further his confusion, but a tone of amusement had creeped in when he questioned, "So why are you laughing?"  
  
        "I don't know," I giggled. "But it feels nice to laugh. I should do it more often." His chest moved up and down in a short laugh of his own as I reached over and grabbed his hand, bringing it closer to me and running my fingers over the pleasantly soft skin; I vaguely registered the feeling of him burying his face in my hair as I smiled and admitted, "Your hands are nice."  
  
        The filter between my brain and my mouth had been completely disconnected. What I just said should have caused the burn of mortification to settle over me. But I experienced nothing more than a completely relaxed state, a slowing of my unexplained fit of giggles, and a warm tingling sensation gradually filling me; it was almost like the pleasant warmth you experienced when being under the sun on a nice summer day.  
  
        Tate hummed and I could feel him smile. "My hands are nice?" he repeated as though for clarification. Amusement seeped through his tone.  
  
        "Mm-hmm," I sighed, turning his hand over so I could trace my nail lightly over his palm; it was hard to believe hands so beautiful could have caused that woman's death, but somehow knowing of the power they possessed made them -- made _him_ \-- that much more attractive. "You're nice, too."  
  
        His arm tightened around me as he mumbled into my hair, "I'm not so nice."  
  
        Feeling myself frown, I shook my head and protested, "No, you are. You would've just let us die if you weren't. But you didn't. You saved us." I tilted my head up to look at him. He pulled away slightly at the movement so we could better see each other. "You saved my sister, and my mom. You're the only reason they're alive right now. I can never thank you enough for that, Tate," I whispered. Just for that moment, the haze of the Xanax lifted, and I was able to look into his eyes with absolute clarity.  
  
        His eyes peered into mine with such intensity that I was unable to look away. There was an emotion swimming within those dark irises, one that I couldn't name, but it was enough to hold me in place. My own eyes flicked briefly to his lips. They were flushed a light pink, naturally, and parted just slightly. I wondered if they would feel as soft as they looked. Swallowing, I moved my gaze back up, noticing for the first time the bags underneath his deep brown eyes, the light purple hue standing out against his nearly luminescent skin.  
  
        He was beautiful.  
  
        "Your father prescribed me some pills after our first session," he confessed quietly, as though speaking any louder would shatter everything. "I didn't take them, and he asked me why." He paused. "I told him it was because my dick wouldn't work."  
  
        I stared at him for a second before bursting out in laughter. A smile worked its way onto my face as he tried to shush me, peeking back at my door, but I just shook my head, unable to stop myself, even as I choked out, "You didn't _really_ say that to him, did you?"  
  
        Tate chuckled and nodded his head. "I did. He didn't seem too impressed. Now be quiet, or we'll get caught."  
  
        Giggles continued to slip past my lips without any control. The lighter mood had slipped me right back into my Xanax-addled mind. Even his angelic beauty was not enough to grant me another brief moment of sobriety. Pulling me against his chest, the arm around my shoulders shifted to crook around my neck; then that hand was brought up to cover my mouth. My giggles were muffled slightly from the obstacle.  
  
        "You know, Abigail," he murmured into my ear, his chest vibrating with his low voice, "I also told your father the reason I was afraid my dick wouldn't work is because I met someone." The words just sent me into another round of laughter, which he responded to by tugging me closer. "Because I met you."  
  
        He punctuated the sentence by placing a small kiss on my shoulder where my sweatshirt had fallen. His hand fell from my mouth and lightly gripped my upper arm. I bit my lip at sensation his words and his actions stirred within me, my heartbeat accelerating as I turned my head to look at him. A beat passed where all I could focus on was the light, airy feeling in my head, my rapid heartbeat, and how close his face was to mine.  
  
        Then his lips were on mine, and nothing else mattered. They weren't soft like I expected. They were chapped, but the rough flesh caressing my own created a delicious friction that made me shiver. He brought his hand up to cradle my cheek, his thumb rubbing my flushed cheek as he pulled away, resting his forehead on mine. My eyes fluttered to find him already looking back with that dimpled smile of his.  
  
        A flood of emotions rushed over me, and before I could register any of them, I had launched myself at him. The momentum and shock of my sudden movement pushed us down onto my mattress with him underneath me. He groaned in surprise. My fingers eagerly buried themselves in his hair while my lips attacked his own. His hands found my waist and tugged me closer.  
  
        Shifting so I was straddling his lap, a leg placed on either side of him, I pulled back, my breathing heavy as I took in his similarly flustered state; I felt satisfaction at knowing I had the same effect on him as he did on me. The brown of his irises were nearly black as he peered up at me, his lips slightly swollen and redder than they had been. I swallowed as my mouth went dry at the sight of him.  
  
        His tongue darted out to wet his lips. My eyes locked onto the movement. "Abbie . . ." My name falling from those same lips in such an alluring tone caused a whole new wave of desire.  
  
        Biting back a groan, I placed a finger against his lips to shush him. "Please, Tate. Just . . ." Trailing off, I sucked in a shaky breath and sat up. My hands gripped the hem of my sweatshirt, and before I could rethink my actions, I pulled it up and over my head, tossing it on the floor. "Just let me thank you," I murmured.  
  
        A cry of surprise left me when Tate suddenly flipped us over so my back was pressed against the mattress with him hovering over me. The noise was swallowed by his mouth as it crashed down on mine. His hands traced my torso, creating a pleasant burn as my skin tingled in response. My hands couldn't decide where they wanted to be. First his hair seemed like a good option, but then there was the back of his neck. From there, they discovered his shoulders and his arms; lean but just strong enough to feel the muscles.  
  
        He removed his mouth from mine and started kissing his way down my jawline. With a barely restrained moan as he hit the spot just behind my jaw, I wrapped my legs around his legs and fisted the fabric of his shirt before he sat up and helped me pull it over his head, carelessly discarding it like I had done with my sweatshirt. My hands eagerly mapped out the expanse of his chest and down his torso until my fingers danced along the waistband of his jeans. He batted them away in favor of pressing kisses to my collarbone and down the valley between my bra-covered breasts. I arched my back off the bed and quickly disposed of the beige barrier. My hands knotted in his hair as his mouth descended upon my exposed chest before he kissed his way down my stomach. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my sweatpants and slid them off my legs before slipping out of his jeans as well.  
  
        A strangled gasp slipped past my lips as his hand slipped between us to rub at the apex of my thighs through my panties, which then joined my other clothes on the floor, leaving me fully exposed to his hungry gaze. I bit my lip as he removed the last of his clothes and settled back in between my legs. He leaned down and enveloped my mouth once more, swallowing my moan as he pushed into me, waiting a couple of seconds for me to adjust before starting a slow rhythm that eventually picked up speed and force. My arms wrapped around his shoulders and I buried my face into the crook of his neck as I felt the coil in my stomach gradually tightening with each thrust of his pelvis.  
  
        Finally, he angled his hips just right and hit that spot that unraveled the coil, the pleasure so intense that I had to bite down on his shoulder to keep quiet. He grunted and jerked his hips before stilling as he reached his own release. With a satisfied groan, he collapsed and rested his head on my chest, his breathing just as labored as mine. I ran my fingers through his slightly sweat-dampened hair even as I felt my eyes grow heavier with each blink.  
  
        Tate placed a lazy kiss to my chest before rolling us over so we were lying on our sides. He pulled the blankets over us. My eyes drifted closed as he wrapped his arms around me and held me close. I smiled at the feeling of his lips in my hair and the words he murmured.  
  
        "You're welcome."

* * *

**I know this was not well written. I have a lot of trouble writing out scenes like that. I always feel awkward, and it definitely shows, so I'm sure it feels like a twelve year old wrote it. Apparently my years of reading this kind of stuff has not improved my ability to actually write it.**   
  
**I researched the effects of Xanax, and I hope I did a good enough job of writing that, but I apologize if it is off or unrealistic in any way. I haven't personally taken Xanax, so it's hard to get the effect exactly right as I have on experience of it, just what I know from reading.**


	13. Manipulation

Tate had been gone when I woke up the following morning. I almost wrote everything off as a dream induced by the Xanax, which did wonders for my sleep, but underneath the covers I remained nude. The realization that it had actually happened hit first. Then came the small shock and disbelief. The shame and guilt immediately followed as it all set in.  
  
         _Oh, God . . . What have I done?_  
  
        My parents taught me better. Maybe I wouldn't have waited until marriage, but at least until I was with someone I truly loved. I didn't love Tate. I wasn't even sure _how_ I felt about Tate. He was cute, sure, and he had saved us, and he was easy to talk to. I liked him, and maybe something would have happened eventually, but last night never should have happened. We should have stopped at the kiss.  
  
        That kiss probably shouldn't have even happened. Not when I was under the influence of a sleep-inducer. Which I made a note to put back in Ben's office -- I was _not_ taking that again. But had it all just been an effect of the drug, or was I just feeling especially vulnerable and acted on a whim? I couldn't remember what had pushed me to continue. If it was something I genuinely wanted or not. I certainly wanted it last night, so I knew he didn't force me into anything, but should I place at least some of the blame on him? He knew I had taken medicine to relieve anxiety and help me sleep; surely he could tell the effect it had on me.  
  
        I couldn't blame him. It was on me. I had made the mistake, and I was going to have to face whatever consequences that brought. Starting with talking to Tate as soon as I could.  
  
        For now, however, I remained in the dining room with my mother and Marcy until an opportunity presented itself. Mom had called up the realtor to discuss her decision to move out of the house. A decision I was fully behind; I had wanted out of the house since we'd bout it. Now it was finally happening.  
  
        A steaming cup of coffee was nestled warmly between my hands as we got settled. Marcy sighed and looked between Mom and me. "I am just horrified for you and your family. I hardly know what to say, really. And I can just imagine how you might be feeling a little anxious, given all of this."  
  
        That was putting it mildly. I was a little miffed at how nonchalant she was about it. She could at least show some genuine compassion or empathy towards us. Her words told a story different from her tone. Biting my tongue, I instead lifted my ceramic mug to my mouth and took a sip, relishing briefly in the sweet flavors of bitter caffeine and creamy vanilla.  
  
        Mom forced a small smile. "Nope, not anxious. Angry," she corrected.  
  
        Marcy's own lips turned up at the corners, unsurely. She tapped a fingernail against her mug. "You know that's how I felt when the boys, you know, did what they did. We'd gotten rather close. They'd have me over for Bloody Marys and omelettes on a Sunday. So to find out what nasty little perverts they were -- you probably heard about the poker from the fireplace being rammed up his --"  
  
        "Marcy," Mom interrupted, stopping the woman from continuing her sentence, "we have to put the house back on the market." She reached out and patted me on the back as I choked slightly on the coffee I had just swallowed; God, who would do something that disgusting and _repulsive_ to another human being? "And we have to make back everything we put into it. We can't afford to take a bath on this."  
  
        The realtor's mouth opened, but for a second, no sound came out. Then she cleared her throat. "You know, you might want to readjust your expectations. The housing market is dropping daily. And these things aren't about to change until 2013, when we vote that bum out," she simpered.  
  
        With a frown and a mildly scratchy throat, I retorted, "By law, you were obligated to tell us of any material facts that may have influenced my parents' decision to purchase this property. That includes any deaths we should be aware of. You owe us, Marcy."  
  
        "Excuse me, dear," she returned, obviously offended, "but the law requires me to disclose any death on the premises within the last three years. I did that." Mom scoffed and rolled her eyes, causing Marcy to turn her eyes on her. "Nobody's buying _me_ cooking classes, Mrs. Hormon."  
  
        Annoyed, we corrected our surname simultaneously. " _Harmon._ "  
  
        Marcy ignored us and continued. "Nobody's looking out for me. Do you know where I live? I live in a 350-square-foot guest house in Valley Village, with rats. I'd kill to live in this house, regardless of the history. You know, you probably need a more seasoned realtor. Someone who specializes in --"  
  
        Mom laughed sardonically. "Oh, you think you were my first call? I called every realtor in the city this morning -- Coldwell Banker, Century 21. No one will take this listing. So here's the plan." She clasped her hands together and leaned forward, looking Marcy right in the eye. "You are going to bake cookies. You are going to go buy beautiful, expensive, fresh-cut flowers. You are going to maybe make up some nice stories about all the lovely people who have lived here over the years. You're gonna do whatever it takes, and you are gonna sell this house, and then my family and I are gonna go live someplace safe. And in return for that, I am not gonna sue you for gross criminal negligence. We on the same page? Good," she finished.  
  
        We both stood up, grasping our coffee mugs in our hands. As we turned to leave the room, making Mom's word the final one in the discussion, I directed the same sardonic smile Mom had towards Marcy. "See, Marcy? Somebody _is_ looking out for you."  
  
        I gulped down the rest of my caffeine and quickly washed the mug in the sink before showing Marcy out. Though she was perfectly capable of seeing herself out as she dumped her own ceramic cup on the island and, with her purse clutched in her hand, stormed towards the entryway. I rolled my eyes when she slammed the door behind her. _Childish_. It was on my way back through when a loud knock and an accompanying gasp caught my attention. Curious, I took a couple steps closer to the room it came from, stopping only when I heard Moira's voice.  
  
        "I thought I'd knock this time so you didn't have a heart attack," the housekeeper stated. "Though Lord knows I wish you were dead."  
  
        My eyebrows shot up in response. I was shocked the hear such an unpleasant sentence leave the elderly woman's mouth. And with such venom applied to the words. A frown appeared on my face as I grew concerned. Who was she talking to anyway?  
  
        That question was answered as a second voice carried out to me. "Do me a favor, will you? Before I take this one, polish it up. Look, it's cruddy with corrosion. And you know why? Because you're a shitty maid."  
  
        Constance, from next door. My frown deepened. Why was it both she and her daughter always seemed to find a way inside? Clearly we needed a better security system installed. One that specialized in keeping out neighbors.  
  
        "Adding those to your magpie stash?" Moira quipped.  
  
        The clinking of metal faintly accompanied the women's conversation. "Until I have a full set. Then it's off to eBay, where I'll make a pretty penny, and you'll be accused of petty theft." Her light footsteps prompted me to peek around the corner to see what exactly was going on, swiftly pulling back out of sight as the blonde woman begun to turn in my direction. "You _are_ a thief of biblical proportions, after all. Your specialty being weak husbands," she alleged.  
  
        Something crashed against the hardwood floor, metal smashing against wood, and made my body jerk in surprise. "I don't want to be here anymore! I'm frightened! I miss my mother!" Moira cried out.  
  
        Heartbreak was evident in her tone. It was nearly enough to break _my_ heart. To hear her so devastated over her mother, who I assumed had passed on fairly recently for her to have an outbreak like this, caused a familiar tightening in my chest.  
  
        "You think I want to stay in this world of death and rot and regret?" Constance asked, her voice surprisingly soft before suddenly hardening once more. "Try to find some dignity in the situation. Move on, missy."  
  
        "I can't," Moira wailed. "I want to, but I can't!"  
  
        I peeked around the corner again to see Constance yank something out of the housekeeper's grip. "Every time I find my heart breaking just a sliver for you, I suddenly remember you made this mess for yourself." She paused. "And I also remember, every time I see that ghostly eye, that I was and continue to be a hell of a shot," she chuckled.  
  
        My eyebrows furrowed. Moira's right eye swam in my vision as I considered her words. Did Constance have something to do with that?  
  
        "You need to pay for what you've done," Moira asserted.  
  
        There was a small pause before Constance replied, "Oh, I do. Every goddamn day."  
  
        When the blonde finally rounded the corner, she nearly crashed right into me, but thankfully she noticed me at the last second and pulled to a stop. My eyes strayed from the surprise on her slightly wrinkled face to the silverware she was holding in her hand. My mother's silverware.  
  
        "Forgive me, dear," Constance simpered, her tone sounding innocent despite the evidence. "I didn't see you there."  
  
        "Perhaps you were too preoccupied with sneaking my mother's silverware out of our house," I returned easily, my eyes narrowing into a pointed glare and my palm extending, a gesture for her to hand it over. "May I have it back?"  
  
        Her own eyes narrowed at my outstretched hand before coming to rest on my face. "You would do well to keep to your own affairs," she warned.  
  
        "Well, seeing as how that is _our_ silverware," I asserted with a sharper glare, reaching out and ripping the utensils from her hand, "I imagine I'm doing just fine."  
  
        With that, I pushed past the older woman, my shoulder bumping hers, and into the room from which she came. Standing by the chest where the silverware was carefully stored was Moira. A single hand was held over her eyes. Her chest stuttered slightly as though she were crying or trying not to. She tensed slightly at my footsteps against the hard flooring and lowered her hand. Both eyes were a little misty and glittered with unshed tears.  
  
        "Oh, Miss Harmon," she sniffled, straightening and clasping her hands in front of her, visibly composing herself as though there was a shame in her emotions. "What can I do for you, my dear?"  
  
        I sent a soft smile in the elderly woman's direction. "Please, Moira, I thought we'd agreed on a first name basis." Stepping closer, I held out my hand, offering the silverware. "Constance was kind enough to return these. After some persuasion," I added with a shrug.  
  
        Moira's withered lips curled into a grateful smile. "Bless you, dear," she sighed. Her timeworn hands accepted the silverware and set about packing them into their proper casings.  
  
        Feeling like I should say something, something concerning what I'd overheard between her and the neighbor, I remained there while she put away the silver utensils. I didn't know what to say. I probably shouldn't say anything, considering I'd been eavesdropping and shouldn't have heard any of it, but whatever was going on between them really seemed to upset both parties. Moira especially. We weren't especially close -- I had actually been avoiding her after what I'd seen occur between her and Ben, whatever that was -- but I still felt sorry for her.  
  
        She turned around and seemed surprised to see me still standing there. "Was there something else you wanted, dear?" she asked curiously.  
  
        I still couldn't find the right words, so I just shook my head and said, "Uh, no. Sorry for bothering you. I just wanted to return the silverware."  
  
        "you better get going then, dear," she waved off, her head of vivid red hair turning towards the window, a wry smile stretching briefly across her lips. "I think someone's waiting for you."  
  
        Confused, I followed her line of sight. Lingering outside was Tate. A knot formed inside my stomach at the sight of him. He wasn't looking towards the window, therefore he wasn't able to see us looking out at him, but he appeared to be waiting. Presumably for me, as Moira had stated. The elderly housekeeper patted me on the back reassuringly as she exited the room, her low heels clicking softly against the hardwood flooring. My eyes followed her out. I got the sinking feeling that somehow she knew what had happened between me and Tate last night. That thought unsettled me because not only did I knot want anyone knowing, there wasn't any way for Moira _to_ know about the indiscretion.  
  
        A resigned sight left me as I slipped outside and shut the door quietly behind me. His dark brown eyes lit up as they landed on me. His whole expression brightened. Guilt stirred deep within my chest at the thought of possibly breaking his heart. I wasn't so vain as to think he held any serious feelings for me, but his reaction upon seeing me made me realize that I had probably led him on to believe that I held deeper feelings for him, and I felt awful.  
  
        Meeting me halfway with a grin on his face, his arms instantly pulled me into an embrace before I could work up the courage to say anything. My heart fluttered at the contact. I winced as he placed a kiss to the top of my head. With a sigh, I gently extricated myself out of his arms and looked at him, swallowing as his eyebrows furrowed in concern.  
  
        "Tate," I spoke, mentally clapping myself on the back as my voice didn't waver, "we need to talk."  
  
        My words prompted a frown to mar his features. Another emotion mixed with the concern already etched on his face. It replaced the light in his eyes and created a dim cloud of darkness over the endless depths of brown. The emotion was easily recognized as distress. He grew visibly upset at the dreaded sentence; dreaded by both those who heard it and those who delivered it.  
  
        In a strained voice, he fretted, "What's wrong, Abbie? Did I do something?"  
  
        It took nearly all of my self-restraint not to groan in a distress of my own. This was already hard enough without him thinking he had done something to upset me. He was just making this so much harder on me. The genuine upset he was portraying made me want to collect him in my arms and kiss him and assure him over and over that he hadn't done anything wrong. But I refrained from doing so, as that would serve a purpose to do nothing more than further confuse and complicate the situation.  
  
        "No, Tate, it's not you," I assured him, running a hand over my face with a sigh. "We just need to talk." His frown deepened, a confused glint sharing space with the concern and distress, his eyes now a whirlwind of emotion that prompted me to elaborate. "About last night."  
  
        He didn't say anything. For a moment, neither did I. Like both of us were preparing ourselves for what was about to be said. The air around us had grown thick with tension and anticipation. My thoughts were racing during the silence.  
  
         _Come on, Abigail. Just say it. Just tell him it was a mistake to sleep with him. Out with it. Like a bandaid. Quit stalling. Okay, say it. You cannot be afraid of hurting his feelings. He has to know. You have to tell him. 'Last night was a mistake, Tate.' That's all you have to say. It's not that hard. What's the problem? Out with it already! Tell him, Abigail! Say it!_  
  
        I took a deep breath and, before I could lose the small amount of courage I had amassed, spit out the words. "Tate, last night never should have happened. It was a mistake. I was feeling alone and vulnerable, and a little disoriented from the Xanax."  
  
         _There. It's said. Now was that so hard?_  
  
        Sometimes I really felt the urge to strangle that little voice, motivated by my conscience, inside my head. It's sass outweighed mine, and its use of sarcasm was excessive. Not to mention it was condescending and patronizing. Having a conscience just complicated things. It made me care when everything would've been so much easier if I just didn't.  
  
        Like right now. Oh, how I wished the sight of Tate welling up with tears didn't hurt. But it did. My heart ached. The guilt crushed any surprise I held at his reaction to my words.  
  
        Tate's bottom lip quivered, barely detectable, as he muttered, "So you were just using me then?"  
  
        "Oh, God, don't -- don't do that," I pleaded, feeling my heart sink into my stomach at his broken demeanor. "Please. No, I didn't -- I wasn't using you, Tate. I -- I . . ."  
  
        Except I did use him. I trailed off at the realization, unable to form the words I wanted to say. He had been there when I was feeling alone. When I was angry at the world and tired of being the one person in the family who had to be, quote-unquote, _perfect_. The one who couldn't screw up. He had been the one person available when I made the unconscious decision to throw all caution to the wind and make that stupid, reckless, _sinful_ mistake. Tate had been the perfect outlet.  
  
        He was right. I had used him. And that realization settled on my chest like a heavyweight. It continued to press and press until I couldn't take it anymore. My own eyes adopted that familiar sting of unshed tears as I shook my head, appalled at myself. What kind of person was I? This wasn't me. I never wanted to hurt anybody. Yet here I was, standing before the boy who had been so sweet to me despite certain events, the cause of his kicked puppy expression. There wasn't anything in the world that could possibly drown me in as much guilt as I was in right now.  
  
        Swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat, I bit my lips, fighting to keep my own emotions at bay. "I'm so sorry, Tate. I never meant for it to happen; I never meant to hurt you."  
  
        Tate nodded his head and looked down at his faded Chucks. "Right. I just thought you were different from other girls," he muttered.  
  
        His words cut deep. Like I had intentionally let him down when he was counting on me most. Like I had betrayed him. I closed my eyes and fought against the onslaught of tears that I could feel were about ready to overflow and spill over my cheeks; I might as well have betrayed him. Last night probably actually meant something to him. More than a free pass to do something stupid.  
  
        "I'm so sorry, Tate," I reiterated softly, opening my teary eyes to find that his tears had already started slipping down his pale face, his dark eyes rimmed in red. "I don't know what else I can say. I'm a horrible person -- and just -- I'm sorry."  
  
        His lips pursed. "I just . . . I thought I finally found someone who -- who was able to look past . . ." He sniffed and shook his head. "I thought I'd finally found someone who could accept me . . . who could love me," he finished quietly.  
  
         _Damn it._  
  
        If I had any shred of my heart left before that last bit, it was gone now. How could something so heartbreaking come from someone so beautiful? It was painful. Everything about it hit me in all the right places. I took a deep breath to keep my tears at bay. Hearing those words nearly made them let loose. I couldn't stand to see him cry. It was the saddest thing I'd ever seen. What he was saying made me want to cry _for_ him.  
  
        "No, Tate, I do accept you," I assured him, moving forward hesitantly and taking his face in my hands, cupping his cheeks and using my thumbs to wipe away the running tracks. "I accept you, I do. Please, Tate, just -- just stop crying."  
  
        "What's so wrong with me?" he whimpered, looking right into my eyes; it was then I noticed a strange glint within the brown depths of his irises that differed wildly from the distress he was conveying. "Why --?"  
  
        Pressing my lips together, I removed my hands from his face and stepped away, my actions causing him to cut his sentence short as he looked at me in confusion. Or what he wanted me to _see_ as confusion. That glint I saw in his eye tipped me off to what was really happening right now. What I had originally viewed as genuine sadness and possible heartbreak had been nothing more than a way to get me to stay or take back what I said about it being a mistake. It was a method of manipulation.  
  
        He was quite the actor. He'd had me in tears, had me nearly crying for him, for the pain I caused him. It was almost enough to counter the foolishness I felt at not realizing it sooner. But it wasn't enough to erase how stupid I felt for still holding an attraction for him. I still liked him. Despite this whole 'unlovable, misunderstood' act that had me feeling like the worst person on the face of the earth, I couldn't deny the stirring I still felt as my eyes scanned his face. The tug at my heart at the crocodile tears still glistening.  
  
        A sigh left me as I leveled him with a deadpan look. "Okay. Cut the bullshit." An affronted expression crossed his face, briefly replacing the betrayed one he'd carried since I'd told him it was a mistake. "It's not going to work. I'm not going to take back what I said. Last night was a mistake, Tate, but that doesn't mean I don't like you. It just means there's gonna have to be some boundaries if we decided to keep . . . hanging out," I said firmly.  
  
        His face hardened gradually as the words left my mouth until the only remaining signs of his earlier distress were the slight redness around his eyes and the drying tear tracks down his cheeks. I knew I had made the right call on what that glint meant. Sometimes having Ben for a father paid off, and this was one of those times. The small 'life lessons' he used to give me and Violet, imparting his psychiatric knowledge in the most subtle way he could, had clued me in on what to look for or how to decipher in certain situations. I just wish I didn't have to use that when having this conversation; I never once considered that I might be manipulated when I decided to talk to Tate about what happened.  
  
        Maybe manipulation was just an added benefit of his 'psychosis.'  
  
        "Fine. Go ahead and draw your lines," Tate spit out bitterly. "But _I_ wasn't the easy one last night." His jaw visibly clenched as he continued to stare down at me. "You were the one who wanted it. You _threw_ yourself at me." He smiled wryly. "I guess I shouldn't waste my time on some slut who just gives it away for free anyway."  
  
         _Ouch._  
  
        That last remark stung more than I would care to admit. Was that really how he viewed me? Did he really think I was a slut because of last night? He had been my first. And while I definitely should have waited for someone I loved, that meant something. I had been a seventeen year old virgin. Not too many girls now could say that. Now neither could I.  
  
        But that didn't make me a _slut_ , did it? Although . . . I suppose he had been right when he said I'd thrown myself at him. He did try to stop it, but I'd wanted to continue. I _wanted_ it. He was right.  
  
        Maybe I _was_ a slut.  
  
        Tears once again built up in my eyes as he stood there a moment longer, a certain gleam of what I deciphered as repulsion in his eyes, before he pushed past me. Despite knowing he had been right about me, I still felt like I deserved a chance to defend myself, but I didn't know what I could say. So I summoned up the small amount of irritation I had from being manipulated into taking pity on him, turned to watch him go, and called out the only words I could come up with.  
  
        "Fuck you!"  
  
        It wasn't an intelligent rebuttal. It wasn't even an argument defending my stance in the situation. But it was the best I could do if I wanted to get something out before he left earshot.  
  
        Tate's stride never faltered as he called back, "I already did."  
  
        Then he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, leaving me standing there with tears in my eyes and the harsh realization that my parents had raised a girl who 'gives it away for free.' I sniffled and blinked away the liquid that had accumulated. If that was who I truly was, then so be it. I was the girl who just gave it away for free. But that did _not_ mean I was going to continue doing so.  
  
        Who cared what he thought of me anyway? He was just pissed because I had seen through his attempts at manipulation. I knew I had made a mistake, and I was willing to live with it now that I had owned up to it. I had made peace with it.  
  
        A sigh left me as I waited a second, my eyes locked on the last spot I had seen him in, before heading back inside the house.  
  
         _Or not._

* * *

**I really hope I was able to keep Tate in character through that last bit. He is such a difficult character to write. His manipulations make it really hard to determine which personality to go with in certain situations.**


	14. Murder House

"And the next stop on our tour of departed souls -- the gem of mid-town, Murder House."  
  
        Mom and I sat side by side on the _Eternal Darkness_ tour, listening as the spokesperson, Stan, introduced us to various locations in which infamous murders had taken place. Apparently Bianca, the blonde woman who had been with the group of intruders, had mention to Ben how our house was on the tour. Mom insisted on going, and she had dragged me with her. Normally I wouldn't have minded, especially since she wanted me to come, but I wasn't really up for doing anything after Tate. So the fact that she had practically forced me to come irritated me.  
  
        But the longer we sat on that bus, the more I realized that maybe this was the perfect opportunity to learn more about the house. If Mom had felt the need to pay money for us to join the tour, perhaps there was more that had happened there than that murder back in 1968 and the murder-suicide of the couple who owned the house before us. Perhaps the house had a history darker than any of us knew. That might actually explain how weird I felt when on the property. They say that energies are absorbed by the walls, and those same energies can still resonate even decades or centuries later.  
  
        And if that was true, that would certainly explain the paranormal activity I experienced that one night. It didn't exactly make me feel better about the house, but I was a little happy at the possibility of finally getting some answers.  
  
        I tuned back into the tour when the bus came to a stop again. This time we had stopped in front of a dark alleyway guarded by a fence.  
  
        "Sal Mineo was thirty-seven years old when he died. A _Golden Globe_ winner and two-time _Oscar_ nominee. His father was a coffin-maker who never accepted that his son was gay. They sent away a petty criminal, African-American Lionel Raymond Williams, for the murder, calling it a 'robbery gone wrong.' But you'll have a hard time finding anyone who believes that in this town. Most people believe Sal Mineo died of a hate crime."  
  
        A couple people snapped a few pictures. Stan answered some questions. Then the bus was moving on to the next murder location. With an inaudible sigh, I pulled my phone out of my pocket -- it had been found by the police in the living room; apparently one of the intruders hadn't thought to take it with them when they escaped -- and unlocked it, crossing my right leg over my left as I thumbed through my messages. There was a new one from Lana, asking if Mom had gotten her message.  
  
        Frowning, I leaned over slightly and asked, "Hey, did you get Lana's message? Apparently she left you one."  
  
        Mom nodded her head, her face brightening up a little behind her sunglasses. "Oh, yeah. She called and invited us all out for dinner tonight. I still need to get back with her on it," she answered.  
  
        "All of us?" I muttered, arching a brow. "Even . . . ?"  
  
        I didn't need to say the name for her to know who I was talking about. She sighed and patted my thigh, exposed to the sun due to my denim overalls whose legs acted as shorts. "I know you're not happy with, Abbie -- God knows I'm not either -- but he's still part of this family. He's trying."  
  
        Tucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I considered that. Was he trying? He was still a part of this family and, as my and Violet's father, he always would be. But that didn't mean he was trying to get back into our good graces. Trying would be actually attempting to be a good husband and father. Sneaking off to be with Hayden and lying about the reason behind his return to Boston was _not_ trying.  
  
        My fingers found my necklace, laying innocently over my white t-shirt, and fiddled with it as I debated on whether or not to vocalize my next question. On the one hand, I was curious as to what the answer would be, but on the other hand, I didn't want to end up hurting or accidentally offending Mom. I quickly tapped out a reply to Lana while I decided.  
  
        Finally I sighed and blurted out, "Did you just get pregnant because you think it's gonna save your marriage?"  
  
        I chanced a glance over at her once the words were out there. Her face had hardened just a little, enough to let me know that the question bothered her. But she also seemed to be thinking about it. So I lowered my gaze and picked at my nails, letting her sort through whatever was going on inside her mind right now.  
  
        "I didn't mean to get pregnant," she said finally, her voice low so only I would hear. "But in a way, yes, I hoped it would save this family." Another sigh left her. "However, it seems that nothing will."  
  
        I was silent for a moment. It was clear to me that she still loved Ben. She was truly upset about the state her marriage was in. It was hard for me to see. But I was a bit happy that she had decided to tell me the truth. Most parents would have given some bullshit line to spare their kids from hurting, and that's what Mom and Ben did a lot of the time, but the fact that she had enough faith that I was strong enough to handle the truth made me happy. It made me feel like I was at least doing something right.  
  
        Without saying anything, I just leaned my head on her shoulder, feeling her rest hers on top of mine in acceptance of what it meant. It meant I was sorry. For everything. I was sorry for asking, sorry for what had happened, sorry for things not going according to plan. This move was supposed to be the one thing that would somehow fix their marriage. But it just seemed to be tearing everyone further apart.  
  
        I lifted my head when the bus turned onto our street after vising the Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman murder site.  
  
        "Our tour concludes with one of the most famous houses of horrors in the City of Angels; better known as the 'Murder House,'" Stan announced as the bus rolled to a stop directly in front of the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property currently possessed by my family. "Built in 1922 by Dr. Charles Montgomery -- acclaimed surgeon to the stars -- for his wife Nora, a prominent East Coast socialite. But when Montgomery fell on hard times, he became addicted to drugs and developed a terrifying Frankenstein complex."  
  
        My mouth twisted into a grimace at the thought. There was no telling what someone with a Frankenstein complex would do, and it had all gone on under what was now our roof. I held onto the hope that Stan wouldn't go into any specifics.  
  
        "An estimated two dozen girls went under Dr. Montgomery's knife, thanks to his wife Nora," the spokesperson continued. "But the souls of the little ones must have weighed heavily upon them, as their reign of terror climaxed in a shocking finale in 1926."  
  
        My stomach churned. So not only had our house been privy to the horrors that came with a drug addict with a Frankenstein complex, it had also seen the illegal practice of nearly two dozen abortions. While I was not totally against abortion -- I was willing to admit that there were certain circumstances in which it was acceptable -- I had a feeling that those had been unnecessary. Just because the probably young, unwed women couldn't keep their legs closed.  
  
        The thought prompted a flash of worry within me. _I_ was a young, unwed woman who couldn't keep her legs closed. What if I was pregnant? It only took the one time to do it. A deeper frown settling on my face, I discreetly lowered a hand and rested it on my abdomen, envisioning a little life growing inside. The idea caused a flurry of emotions to stir within me. Sure, I wanted to have children, and I was sort of excited at the mere possibility of being pregnant, but I never wanted them so young. I never wanted to be a teenage mother. The idea of possibly being pregnant scared me. How would I support the child?  
  
        Before I could shake myself out of those thoughts -- I was overreacting, it had just happened the night before; I was freaking myself out over literally nothing -- Mom's hand suddenly darted out and wrapped around my arm. She jumped to her feet and dragged me off of the bus towards the house. No explanation was given to me.  
  
        "You can't go in there, ladies!" Stan shouted after us.  
  
        Without pause, Mom shouted back, "This is our house!"  
  
        "Okay," was the confused response.  
  
        The front door slammed shut behind us, and Mom's hand loosened from my arm. My attention immediately turned on her. But before I could form any words, my eyes caught something unusual in her appearance, and it wasn't the worry etched into the lines of her face. The front of her white pants had gained a splotch of red.  
  
        It felt like ice had been injected into my veins. "Mom . . ."  
  
        I couldn't bring myself to voice my thoughts. And from the look on her face, I didn't have to. We were both thinking the same thing. But neither of us wanted to say it.  
  
        Instead, she called for Ben. He took her to the doctor while I stayed with Violet. My sister didn't seem too worried when I told her why I was 'babysitting' her. She just answered with an affirmative that she had heard me and locked herself in her room. Nothing I said could get her to come out, and I think she ended up putting in her earbuds soon after because I stopped getting her negative replies. So I just dragged myself to the kitchen, made myself a warm cup of tea, and settled down in the living room to watch some TV.  
  
        My thoughts strayed back to their earlier train. What if I _was_ pregnant? There was no way for me to know so soon, and I probably shouldn't even be worrying about it, but I couldn't shake the notion away. I had plans to go to college once I saved up enough money. That wouldn't happen if I had a child to support. And there was a possibility of me having to do it alone. There was no guarantee my family would help -- I had seen enough shows on teenage pregnancy to know that it didn't matter how loving and supportive the parents were before the news -- and the father might not even want anything to do with us.  
  
        If I ended up pregnant, I would have to tell Tate. That wasn't up for debate. How would he react? Would he want to be involved? After our conflict earlier, I was doubtful. And since I was apparently a slut, he might even try to deny he was the father.  
  
        That didn't even cover all the things that could go wrong during. What if I ended up losing the baby like Mom lost Joel? Like she possibly lost this child? What if --?  
  
        I stopped myself. _You're being ridiculous, Abbie. You're getting ahead of yourself. For fuck's sake, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours and you're already freaking yourself out over something you don't even have to worry about._  
  
        With a sigh, I pushed all thoughts concerning my nonexistent pregnancy to the side and instead focused on my mother's current on. I really hoped the baby was okay. The family couldn't withstand another loss. Mom definitely couldn't. She'd break. God knows what Ben would do.  
  
         _Or who_ , I tacked on bitterly.  
  
        Scowling, I smashed my fingers onto the remote control and glowered as the screen flared to life. My thoughts were getting me nowhere good today. I needed to stop while I was ahead. So I tried to clear my mind and flipped through the channels until I found a station that was actually showing something decent. With Halloween approaching, a lot of the stations were beginning their horror marathons, and I had been lucky enough to stumble upon one of my favorites.  
  
        Alfred Hitchcock's _Psycho._  
  
        I had settled on it just as Janet Leigh's character was meeting her Anthony Perkins-delivered demise in that iconic shower scene. Seeing her in that scene brought a small smile to my face. It was no wonder her own daughter grew up to be the ultimate scream queen. The talent clearly ran in the family.  
  
        But that smile soon faded as I grew uncomfortable watching the scene play out. Never once, in all the times I had watched this classic, had I minded that scene. It was the perfect movie murder scene -- no blood, no gore, all screams and glints off the silver blade as it supposedly sinks into the victim's flesh just out of the camera's field of view. But it felt different this time, and as there was only one obvious difference from all the other times, I knew what was making it uncomfortable for me.  
  
        I was watching Norman Bates murder Marion Crane while sitting in the living room of what had been deemed the 'Murder House.'  
  
        Pursing my lips, I quickly shut off the TV and stared into the blackness of the screen, somewhat annoyed that my mere location was preventing me from enjoying one of my favorite horror films. But there was no way I was able to watch someone else get murdered on screen when I was living in a house that had seen more than one acted out within its walls. It was unsettling to think about. There had been that murder in 1968, an attempted reenactment of it, and the murder of one of the participants. But apparently it had all started when it was built in 1922 with Charles and Nora Montgomery. Their illegal practice of giving abortions in order to keep themselves afloat.  
  
        Stan had implied some sort of suicide towards the end. Mom and I had run off before could say for sure, but he had mentioned that the memory of all those aborted babies must have been too much for them because their 'reign of terror' had ended, probably much sooner than it should have. As in they had died too young.  
  
        My brow furrowed. Surely a location nicknamed the Murder House had seen more death that the original owners, their unborn victims, two nurses, and the couple who had owned the property previously. While their deaths were certainly enough to give me a _proper_ reason to feel uneasy about the house, I just knew there was more history we hadn't stuck around to hear. And as an individual granted with a natural curiosity, I had to know what other horrors the house had seen over the years.  
  
        In no time, I was sitting in front of my computer, a fresh cup of coffee to replace the tea from earlier resting on my desk and my fingers flying across the keyboard as I typed out our address in the _Google_ search bar. _'939 Berro Drive, LA 90068.'_ My teeth worried at my lips while I waited anxiously for the results to pop up. I didn't know if just the address would be enough to dig up the information I was looking for, but it was a start.  
  
        I moved my mouse and clicked on the first link. It brought me to the _Eternal Darkness_ website. The subpage it led me to featured an article on our house. My eyes scanned the words, eagerly eating up the information even as my stomach, a little fluttery with anticipation, seemed a bit unsure. Some of the early history I recalled from the tour.  
  
        The house was built in 1922 by Dr. Charles Montgomery as a gift to his wife Nora. They fell on hard times financially, and the good doctor turned to ether and attempted resurrection of dead animals. Nora organized for abortions to be serviced in the basement. Then in 1926, the boyfriend of one of Dr. Montgomery's patients retaliated by kidnapping their son, a baby by the name of Thaddeus; the child was soon found dismembered and returned to his parents for a proper burial. However, Dr. Montgomery was convinced he possessed the medical and scientific means to resurrect the young boy and sewed him back together. Overcome with grief at the loss of her only child and anger at what her husband did to his corpse, she proceeded to shoot him in the head before turning the gun on herself and giving into the same fate.  
  
        My stomach churned. A family had been ripped to shreds in just four short years. They had probably been happy once, the perfect family, but it seemed the construction of the house had only led to tragedy. Though they had been deceased for eighty-five years, my heart ached for and went out to them.  
  
        I read on.  
  
        A dentist by the name of David Curran purchased the property sometime after the Montgomery murder-suicide. His practice was based in the house. The basement. Young, aspiring actress Elizabeth Short was last seen alive in 1947 on the premises. She was discovered by a woman and her daughter in a vacant lot of the Leimert Park. Her body had been bisected at the waist and a 'Glasgow smile' had been carved into her face. It was later revealed she had been raped, and the cause of death appeared to be an overdoes of nitrous gas. But nothing was ever traced back to Dr. Curan. Elizabeth Short's memory lived on to be known as the 'Black Dahlia.'  
  
        The _Black Dahlia_ murder was connected to this house? I knew there had to have been a dark history, but I never expected the property would be in any way associated with one of Los Angeles' most infamous murders. My uneasiness about living in the house, or even just being anywhere _near_ the house, intensified at that piece of information.  
  
        I took a sip of coffee and forced my eyes to continue absorbing the words.  
  
        1968, the year of the R. Franklin murders. The house was being used as a sorority house for nursing students. Some of the students went out to a concert hosted by some band called 'The Doors,' leaving only two, Gladys and nineteen year old Maria, alone for a night of thorough studying for an upcoming exam. R. Franklin faked an injury in order to gain access into the building. Gladys was knocked unconscious and drowned in the bathtub. Maria was hog-tied and stabbed in the back repeatedly.  
  
        Like Fiona, Dallas, and Bianca had tried to do to my mother and sister. This was the scene those intruders had been trying to recreate. A shudder rattled down the length of my spine and tingled outward at the image. I knew they had planned to drown Violet, but I hadn't know what my mother's fate would have been. To find that she would have been tied up and stabbed numerous times caused tears to prick at my eyes. The 'what if' questions started chanting through my mind before I pushed them away. Mom and Violet were safe. They were alive and relatively happy, given the circumstances.  
  
        The article continued into 1978. Two bodies were discovered mangled in the basement. Twin boys named Troy and Bryan Rutger. The house had been abandoned and unkept at this point, and the Rutger twins, apparently known as the neighborhood menaces, had thought it would be fun to sneak inside and vandalize the interior. A pair of wooden bats were also found amongst shards of pottery and smashed glass, indicating they had taken the weapons to a couple windows and various antiques that had been collecting dust for years. They had been young, according to the reports. Maybe around twelve or thirteen. Give or take a few years.  
  
        Children. Troy and Bryan had only been children. And their lives had been stolen from them in this very house. In the basement that had seen so many other deaths over the years. I had been creeped out by basements before, but now I wanted absolutely nothing to do with the lowest level of structures. Too many bad things seemed to go on in basements. Especially in _our_ basement.  
  
        1993 was the next tragedy. A family, consisting of a married couple and their two young daughters, moved into the house. They didn't even last the full year. The husband, a Lawrence Harvey, had started an affair with an unnamed woman who lived in the same neighborhood. Upon finding out about her husband's unfaithfulness, his wife Lorraine went crazy with grief and anger; she locked herself and her two daughters, Margaret and Angela, in the bedroom before setting the space on fire. Lawrence had been unable to break past the door and was unfortunately too late to save his family from perishing in the flames.  
  
        My eyes read the words and took in the history, but my brain refused to accept or even mildly comprehend any of it. So many lives had been lost in that house over the years. So many _young_ lives. And in such tragic ways. There was no possible way we could continue living there comfortably. Not after Mom found out, anyway. She'd want to move out sooner than we could afford it. Even though we were already selling this place, there was no guarantee as to when someone would take it off our hands. It could be months before someone came along who was ignorant of its history, or someone morbid who was interested because of it. And we were stuck there until that happened.  
  
        Suddenly my attention was pulled away from the house's horrific history by a series of shrill yips. My frown deepened at the noise. Hallie was usually pretty quiet for a small dog. She sounded like she was someplace downstairs. Maybe someone knocked at the front door and I just couldn't hear it from up, or I had been too immersed in -- and admittedly horrified about -- my research.  
  
        Closing my laptop, I grabbed my coffee mug and stood from my chair, heading out of my room. Violet's door was still closed with little to no sound coming from the other side. Just the faint wrinkle of paper, like a book page being turned. I sighed and continued down the staircase. Hallie's barks got sharper and louder the closer I got to her location. Which, somewhat surprisingly, was not the front door like I had thought. Instead the small poodle-Chihuahua mix had parked herself just in front of the basement door.  
  
        "Hallie, come here," I shushed, snapping my fingers and pointing at the space in front of my feet, hoping she would obey like she was taught. "Come on, Hallie, get over here."  
  
        She ignored me and continued barking at the closed door, the wiry hair on her back standing up on end as a few growls emitted from her as well. My eyes trailed from her to the wood separating us from the depths of the house in which many horrors had occurred. My lips pressed together as I mentally ran through everything I had read on the _Eternal Darkness_ subpage concerning the history or the 'Murder House.' A lot of the deaths had been down in the basement.  
  
        They say that animals, especially dogs, are sensitive to these things. Was Hallie sensing something down there right now? I couldn't think of anything else that would have her going off like this. And that was not a pleasant thought to have, especially when the only ones in the house were me and Violet. Mom and Ben were still at the doctor's -- I had yet to hear from either one of them -- and Moira had gone home for the day. And with Violet isolating herself in her bedroom, it might as well have just been me in the house.  
  
        As much as I wanted to just grab Hallie and retreat to the safety of my parents' bedroom, since my room had proved to not be as safe, something was urging me towards that basement. Like there was some invisible force pushing me forwards. After fighting it for a moment, I sighed and set down my coffee, gently shoeing the riled Hallie aside before opening the door. My eyes peered down into the darker space, easily making out the bottom of the stairs and a couple of boxes we had stored down there.  
  
        A couple of noises carried up to me through the short, narrow stairwell, slightly muffled underneath the volume of Hallie's barks. There was the faint sound of something rolling back and forth across the concrete flooring. But that was nearly buried underneath the louder, more obnoxious clanking of metal chains. Then a round of childish giggles accompanied them. It was an odd combination. One that sparked my curiosity and drew me in until I was descending the steps, having reached about halfway down before I realized what I was doing. But by then, I had already spotted the culprit of the rolling and the giggling.  
  
        "Addie," I spoke softly, reaching the concrete at the bottom of the stairs, my brows furrowed as I watched her roll a red ball into the shadows, "what are you doing down here?"  
  
        Squatting, she turned to face me, a large smile on her young-looking face. "Playing," she grinned.  
  
        "With who?" I asked.  
  
        "My friends. They live here."  
  
        Unsettled, I peered into the shadows, spotting the ball somewhere in the darkness. But I didn't see anyone there. Which did come as a relief to me. I wasn't sure what I would have done if there had actually been someone looking back at me. Addie said her friends lived here. Were those friends the people who had perished in this house? There were those twins back in 1978, and then those two girls in 1993. The thought kind of shook me, and it still didn't explain the sound of chains, but I decided I didn't want to press for any more information right now. I had learned enough today.  
  
        So I just laid my hand on Addie's shoulder and urged her to go back home. She hesitated for a moment before listening, but she didn't seem too upset about it. She even grinned at me and waved cheerfully before disappearing out the back door. I looked after her a second before letting out a sigh and turning to head back up the stairs. My movement was halted by a slight shuffling and something hitting the side of my foot. When I looked down to see what I had almost kicked, I paused for a second before making a choice and running out the back door, chasing after the neighbor's daughter.  
  
        "Addie! Hey, wait up!"  
  
        It had been the red ball.

* * *

**Okay, so I am not especially proud of this chapter, more precisely the ending. But I find improvisation extremely difficult and I needed some way to end the chapter. And this is it. I apologize for the horrid disaster.**


	15. Morality

**Warning: Forced sexual content.**

* * *

  
It was fascinating how days seemed to go by at different rates. Each day had twenty-four hours, and we were usually up for around twelve of those, or more. But some days the hours seemed to crawl past at a snail's pace while others went from sunup to sundown in the blink of an eye.  
  
        Today had been one of those that never seemed to end.  
  
        My parents finally got ahold of me later in the afternoon. The doctor had assured Mom that the baby was fine. Apparently the blood had been nothing more than spotting, which was common in pregnant women and absolutely nothing to worry about. I had been relieved to hear that. So far this pregnancy seemed to be going okay, which was a huge weight off of not only my mother's shoulders, but mine as well. The reason that it had taken so long for them to let me know what was going on was because Ben had apparently fainted there in the office. The doctor was running an EKG and a blood panel to make sure everything was okay; she should be getting back with him in a couple days.  
  
        But the doctor had also told Mom that we were not to move while she was carrying the baby. Any stressful event, such as moving, could cause high levels of a certain hormone that could potentially lead to a spontaneous abortion. In other words, if we proceeded with our plan to move out of the house, the stress could cause Mom to have a miscarriage. That was increasingly problematic, for it was very much a lose-lose situation for us. We either stayed in the house and risked another murder attempt or something else tragic that could lead to her losing the baby, or we moved and risked the stress of it causing the baby to be aborted naturally. Damned if we do, damned if we don't.  
  
        Having heard that, I made the decision to keep the history of the house to myself. I didn't want to put anymore stress on Mom if she was at that much risk of having a miscarriage. I did want to tell someone, but I knew Ben wouldn't believe me, and I didn't think Violet would care enough to hear me out. She hadn't exactly been up to talking with me recently. It actually worried me, but I wasn't worried that something was wrong with her. Other than her being more secluded than normal, she seemed perfectly okay, despite recent stressors. But I _was_ worried because I knew she was mad at me about something. I wanted to ask her, but I didn't really want to bother her. She would talk to me when she was ready. Hopefully. For now, I would just let her have her space.  
  
        Constance ended up dropping by the house again, shortly after Mom and Ben got home. This time she actually knocked on the door instead of just letting herself in like she was known to do. It was a fairly pleasant visit. She apologized for Addie, again, and made small talk. She even invited Mom and I over for tea sometime. Mom politely declined, or rather asked for a rain check, but there was something in her eye when she turned to receive my response that I just couldn't refuse. So I agreed, and we set up a date for later on in the week, when neither of us would be busy. I thought it was a little odd, but then I also thought that maybe she was actually attempting to be neighborly for once. Or maybe it was to make up for trying to steal my mother's silverware earlier -- Moira and I were still the only people who remained aware of that, and I intended to keep it that way, so long as Constance did not do it again. Or, I guess it would be more accurate to say, if I did not _catch_ her doing it again.  
  
        My favorite part of the day, given all the shitty events that had transpired over the hours, was dinner with Lana and Marion. Mom hadn't been too sure if she was going to accept the invitation, since she really wasn't feeling too up for anything after that scare, but eventually I was able to convince her that a night out of the house was just what she needed. What we all needed, really. It felt like we had all been cooped up within those walls. Even Ben seemed more relaxed, more at ease, once we were out of there. He actually seemed happy. Violet appeared to be more or less the same, but I did notice her face was slightly brighter and her posture straighter, as though she no longer had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Though she did seem to have something else going on with her.  
  
 _"We are so pleased you were able to make it," Marion smiled as the six of us were seated. "It's been too long since we've all been together like this."  
  
        Mom smiled. "I know. We've just been so busy. What with the move and everything." She waved a hand. "You know how it is," she finished.  
  
        My eyes wandered around the interior of the Italian restaurant. It was supposedly one of the best in town. Well, according to Lana and Marion, and I readily took their word. They've lived here for years. If they claimed that _Bestia _served the best Italian cuisine, I believed them. I was glad I had decided to change my clothes for dinner. Now I was in a black skater skirt that still acted as overalls, with the straps over my shoulders on top of my white t-shirt from earlier, and tights, black up to just above my knee when it tapers off into panda faces and then nude the rest of the way up my legs, and old-fashioned, black and white_ _Oxfords_ _that I just adored. I even took my hair out of its braid from earlier and just let my hair hang down my back in slightly messy waves -- I tried to brush them out, but the braid had forced some shape into the dark strands. My makeup was the same from earlier, the golden brown eyeshadow and light lipstick, as I didn't see the point in redoing it.  
  
        "Yes, we certainly do," Lana responded with a smile, but her russet eyes hardened slightly when they glided briefly over to Ben, before she moved them back over to Mom. "But you're here now, so let's enjoy it, shall we?"  
  
        After the waiter came around and took our drink order, Marion grinned and leaned forward, a coy smile on her face. "So, girls, anyone interesting in your lives?" She glanced between me and Violet. "Any boys?" she continued curiously.  
  
        I felt my stomach flutter as an angelic face instantly flickered to the forefront of my mind. The reminder made my heart ache as I recalled our interaction earlier today. He was really the last person I wanted to think about right now. But I should have known this would come up. Marion always had been the one interested in asking us about our love lives. I think she really just wanted a way to connect to us. Despite all the years she had been with Lana, I sometimes I got the feeling she still didn't feel as though we accepted her as part of the family. Which was completely ridiculous. We loved her just as much as we loved Lana.  
  
        Violet scoffed. "As if. All the boys at my school are morons. Not that any of them would even look at me anyway."  
  
        Amongst the objections and various sounds of admonishment her words evoked from us, Lana's tutting was the most demanding, drawing our attention to her when she spoke. "Violet, I do not want to hear anything like that ever leave your mouth again, do you hear me? You are a beautiful young woman, and any boy would be lucky to have you." Then she smiled slightly and ignored the eye roll that came from my sister. "Besides, all boys are morons. Why do you think we're not interested in them?" she joked, placing a gentle hand on her partner's arm. Marion smiled lovingly back at her while the rest of us shared a small laugh.  
  
        "Well, Abbie's seeing someone right now," Violet added bitterly, successfully getting the attention off her and directing it at me. "Right, Abbie?"  
  
        The heat in my cheeks flared up as suddenly I was under the intense gaze of five pairs of eyes. Again, my insides churned and tightened at the reminder. And again, I should have seen this coming. Not only because of Marion always seeming interested in this aspect of our lives, but because she asked, and even if she had only been looking for an answer from Violet, my sister would have found a way to turn it on me anyway. Much like me, she wasn't fond of having all the attention on her, but she normally didn't go out of her way to deflect it to me. One sideways glance at her sharp hazel eyes confirmed that she was mad at me about something. My inner voice suggested that it might be because I hadn't really been there for her recently.  
  
        Marion's excited voice distracted me. "Oh, really?" Her coy grin returned as she rested her chin on her delicate fist. "Don't leave us in suspense, Abbie. Who's the lucky lad?" she asked.  
  
        My eyes darted nervously between everyone. Violet adopted a smug expression and folded her arms over her chest as she sat back in her chair. Marion looked thrilled and eager to hear. Lana was looking at me expectantly, patiently waiting for me to elaborate and share. Mom was surprised, both of her eyebrows arched, but a small smile still played at the corners of her lips at the thought. Ben's expression had gone stoic and schooled, but there was a certain heat in his blue eyes that let me know he wasn't too happy about the idea of me seeing someone -- and he probably suspected who it was, since I had been so adamant about it before.  
  
        "It's no one, really," I muttered, sliding down in my seat in an effort to appear smaller, hunching my shoulders forward slightly. "Nothing to talk about."  
  
        "Oh, I don't believe that for a second," Marion dismissed. "He must be someone pretty special to get your face so red."  
  
        Her observation just made my cheeks grow hotter. The heat shot up the back of my neck and around to my ears. It felt like my entire head was about to catch fire. That actually would have been preferable to this conversation. This was supposed to be a fun night. A night where I could just relax and enjoy myself and everyone's company. Tate had not originally been on my agenda for tonight's topic of discussion. He was the last person I wanted to discuss. I just wanted to forget about what happened between us. About the words we exchanged, what he said to me, about me.  
  
        Thankfully the waiter chose that moment to come back around with our drinks. Glad to be momentarily relieved of that topic, I happily examined the menu before settling on the 'Grilled Whole Branzino' with pea tendrils, fried herbs, and grilled lemon. But, of course, once everyone had ordered and he had left, I was once again the center of attention. To stall, I busied myself with sipping on my burnt apple iced tea, focusing on a single spot on the table so I didn't have to look at any of them.  
  
        "Come on, Abigail," Mom chided gently. "Who is he?"  
  
        When I couldn't force myself to swallow anymore tea at the moment, I reluctantly set the glass down, but kept my eyes trained on the table, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "I told you, it's no one. Please just drop it. I don't want to talk about it," I pleaded, biting my lips as I was afraid of coming off rude towards not only Mom, but towards Lana and Marion. I brought my hand up and used my pointer finger to trace an imaginary pattern into the wood of the table, my eyes following the movement.  
  
        "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Lana assured me, obviously sensing my discomfort better than Mom had. "Let's just talk about something else. Vivien, I think a congratulations are in order." She lifted her Jack Rose cocktail and turned towards Mom with a smile on her face. "A little birdy told me you were expecting. May this child be blessed."  
  
        With no effort, Lana was able to turn the focus away from me, and for that I was extremely grateful. Mom sighed through her nose before lifting her own iced tea -- oolong -- and accepting the round of celebration from everyone. I saw Violet roll her eyes again as she sulked, taking a sip of her own soda and shooting me a dirty look from the corner of her eye when she thought I wasn't looking. A frown tugged at my mouth, but I didn't say anything about it. She was definitely mad at me. However, now was not the right time to prod it out of her; it would only cause a scene, and unnecessarily so. All I could do at the moment was pretend I didn't notice.  
  
        The conversation flowed easily enough through the wait for our entrées. When dinner was finally set in front of us, I was able to say without a doubt that Lana and Marion had been correct when they claimed this was the best Italian restaurant in town. My European seabass was the best fish I had ever had in my life, and that even included Mom's special dish, slow-baked salmon with lemon and thyme, that had always been my absolute favorite. The fried herbs and grilled lemon just gave it the most esquisite flavor combination.  
  
        Taking a bite of her 'Pici al Sugo di Agnello,' which I was pretty sure was some sort of lamb-based dish, Lana looked towards my father. "So, Ben, how's the practice coming?" she asked. Although her voice remained cordial, I took note of a certain disdain evident in her eyes.  
  
        Lana had been absolutely enraged when she'd heard about Ben's little rendezvous with his student. She'd always been protective of her youngest goddaughter, according to everyone on Mom's side of the family, and had never really cared too much for her and Ben's relationship. Of course, she had been even unhappier when they had gotten married, but she had accepted him for Mom. So when Ben had left Mom when she was at her most vulnerable for a night or two of fun with Hayden, she had been just about ready to fly out to Boston and kill him with her bare hands. Maybe figuratively, maybe literally; Lana was a scary woman when crossed, there was no telling just how much she was capable of doing when someone hurt one of her loved ones. She was unhappy when Mom didn't leave him, but respected her choice to remain together and try to work it all out -- but that didn't mean she liked it, or him.  
  
        Ben flashed her a tight smile in return, obviously having caught the same tension from her that I did. "It's doing well, thank you. Holding my sessions from home has caused a few . . . mishaps, but overall, it's doing well," he responded. His eyes briefly slid over to me when he brought up the few 'mishaps,' and I knew he was talking about Tate; I slid down slightly in my seat and forked another piece of fish into my mouth.  
  
        "Well, that's good to hear," Marion intervened politely, sipping at her cocktail. "And, Vivien, have you found any time for your cello?"  
  
        With a shake of her head, Mom held a hand in front of her mouth until she swallowed her bite of 'Gorgonzola.' "Unfortunately, no. I've just been so busy trying to get the house the way I want it," she responded, a nostalgic smile playing at her lips. Her cello had taken solace up in the attic and was currently collecting dust as it awaited to be played once again by her skilled hands.  
  
        Marion tutted. "What a shame. You are so talented, my dear." She sighed and delicately brushed a lock of hair out of her face. "But I do suppose making a house into a home is more important, especially with another child on the way," she concluded.  
  
        "Speaking of which," Lana spoke up, "I know it's still rather early and there are certain . . . factors to consider," She paused to clear her throat quietly, clearly not wanting to linger on the meaning behind her choice of words, "But have you thought of any names yet?"  
  
        I let my eyes transition between my parents. Both of them looked distinctly uncomfortable at the question. They obviously hadn't discussed anything as permanent as names in fear of this baby going the way of Joel. Which was what Lana had referred to when she brought up the 'certain factors to consider.' She had tried to be tasteful about her wording, I could tell that, but there really was no way to put something so brutual in a way that would come off as any sort of delicate. And while I knew she, along with the rest of us, didn't want a repeat of that tragedy, we had to face the reality that there was a possibility of it happening again.  
  
        Mom's lips pressed together into a tight smile. "We haven't found the time yet, but I do love the name Jeffrey for a boy." Her smile became more genuine as she lowered a hand to rest on her still flat -- well, as flat as it could be considering she'd already given birth a few times -- abdomen. "Wendy for a girl," she finished.  
  
        My eyes shifted to Lana as I noticed a change in her demeanor. Her slightly wrinkled features grew softer. A thin layer of moisture washed over her russet eyes as a watery smile tugged at her lightly painted lips. Marion kept her own eyes on Vivien and Ben, but her hand came up to rest on her partner's forearm, her thumb rubbing back and forth in a familiar gesture of comfort.  
  
        Oblivious to this, Ben smiled back at Mom. "I think those are wonderful names."  
  
        "They most certainly are," Marion agreed, turning to Lana. "Don't you think so, honey?"  
  
        "Beautiful," the golden-haired woman murmured, a certain glimmer appearing in her eye, almost like she had been taken back to a significant point in her life that meant a lot to her. "Purely beautiful."_  
  
        Despite all the bumps we had hit along the way, that dinner had definitely been the highlight of my day. I had been genuinely upset when we'd had to part ways with Lana and Marion for the night with a promise that we would do it again soon. We as a family probably would not hold up our end, but I as an individual would certainly make the time to see my two honorary grandmothers much more often. Maybe I would be able to convince Violet to come out of her room for a weekend and the two of us could stay with them. Not only would it give us all a chance to hang out and her a chance to have some actual human interaction, it would also give our parents a chance to do whatever they needed to do, whether that be talk or just avoid everything and immerse themselves in work.  
  
        The day's events came crashing back down on me as we entered the house for the final time that night. They weighed heavily on my mind and my body. So I bid my family a goodnight and immediately retreated into my bathroom for a hot bath. Making sure to lock the door behind me, I set my phone on the closed toilet lid on top of my pajamas for easy access and, after waiting a second, sank into the nearly scalding water. The temperature balanced perfectly on the brink of being too hot to be comfortable. But after today, I needed that extreme heat to work at the stress and strip it all away; I just needed to relax.  
  
        Feeling my eyes begin to close, I forced myself to sit up slightly and grab my phone, taking the time to set an alarm to go off in five minutes. I didn't want to almost drown myself like last time. Once that was done, I let out a sigh and allowed my body to slide down the slope of the tub, my eyelids dropping until I was staring at the back of them.  
  
        Jazz music gently floated into the room and sweetly coaxed my eyes to flutter open once more. My mind had gone a little fuzzy and disoriented, and it took me a moment to take in my surroundings. I was no longer in my bathroom. Instead, I was standing amongst a crowd of dancing couples, their happy chatter accompanying the music. We were all outside on a stone patio-type setting surrounded by round tables with floral centerpieces made of what appeared to be black roses. The matching white chairs around the tables had dark red ribbons tied around the backs.  
  
        As I became a little more aware of my surroundings, I noticed the style of dress the women wore. Gorgeous dresses with beaded fabric. Some came up to just below the knees and were accented by headbands worn around short hairstyles. Even the men appeared a little more formal, with pinstriped suits and the occasional bowler hat or decorative cane, than most I've seen. They all looked like they belonged in a silent movie.  
  
        No one paid me any mind as I weaved my way through the dancing couples. Something was drawing me further into the crowd, and I was determined to see what it was in hopes whatever it was would somehow relieve my confusion. This was not like what I experienced before when I last drifted off. That had been stress-inducing and just terrifying. The only feeling this provoked in me was bewilderment.  
  
        Finally I managed to reach a point where I could clearly see what was obviously supposed to be the center. The other couples had given the area a wide berth as though to allow this pair plenty of room to move with each other. I registered that it had been this specific couple that had drawn me in. My eyes raked over them and their choice of attire.  
  
        The man resembled a young Clark Gable. His dark brown hair was slicked down and parted nestly at the side. A thin mustache, really giving him the appearance of the beloved actor, settled perfectly above his top lip. The brown of his irises were so strikingly dark they were nearly black and were alight with a certain passion. His lean body was garbed in a pinstriped suit, a black rose stuck in the lapel and a blood red ascot tucked into the top.  
  
        The woman had a gently rounded face with two jade irses held in an almost feline shape that had been outlined and colored in dark shadow. Her nose was on the smaller side with a slender bridge and slightly upturned tip. Resting just below were her lips, a defined cupid's bow curled into a blissful smile, painted a dark red to match not only her partner's ascot, but the ribbons around the chairs. Her petite body was covered in a dress that stood out from the others. The fabric was an ivory and decorated with beads and a lacey, floral pattern. Its top was in a halter-style with two strings that tied around the back of her neck, just below her pearl necklace. Draped around her arms was a beaded shawl. Tied around her hair, which was a deep brown and had been piled up in curls atop her head, was an ivory ribbon that acted as a headband.  
  
        They swayed gently in each other's arms, seemingly oblivious to everything around them.  
  
        "White does not suit you, darling," he remarked.  
  
        His voice carried an odd accent. It was almost reminiscent of a Brahmin accent. But, despite its peculiarity, it somehow suited him.  
  
        She smiled back at him, seemingly not bothered by his comment, which sounded as though it was meant to be insulting. "Well, perhaps you'll find it more befitting later tonight, once it is splattered with red," she murmured.  
  
        Her voice was rather sultry and seductive. A certain glint became alight in her eyes as she twisted her painted lips into a playful smirk. She ran a finger teasingly down his arm.  
  
        An easy smile settled on his well-groomed face as he used his grip on her hips to tug her closer. "But my dear, as ravishing an image that creates, I fully intend to rip that dress right off of you the moment we reach our room."  
  
        "Then I guess you'll just have to enjoy the sight of my nude body bathed in red instead of the delectable image of corrupted innocence I was originally going for."  
  
        In response to her coy smile, a low sound rumbled from his chest, reminiscent of a sort of predatory growl. He pulled her even closer. "Darling, you are a revelation."  
  
        The scene began fading as they leaned into each other's touch. It disappeared all together the moment their lips connected, leaving me standing alone in a darkness, even more confused now than I originally had been. The dulcet jazz that had been floating around the venue faded into silence before another noise increasingly replaced it. This one was repetitive, like a sort of sharp beeping, but it sounded muffled and distorted. It sounded like it was originating from underwater. I looked around for the source and saw nothing but the blackness I had been thrown into.  
  
        As the beeping progressively increased in volume, so did my frustration in intensity. It was highly frustrating that all of this was happening and that I had no idea what any of it actually was. Finally I went to take in a deep breath.  
  
        I shot up out of the water, coughing and sputtering in an effort to dispel the tepid liquid from my lungs. My arms flailed out for a second before I threw myself against the side of the tub, my hands gripping the edges as I tried desperately to suck in the oxygen I had been denied. It felt like every nerve in my body had frayed in response. My throat was becoming sore as I fought the violent hacks that were attacking my body.  
  
        This was not the first time I had done this. The very same thing had happened the last time I had decided to take a bath. I had fallen asleep for a brief time, seen something odd and even troubling, and then been forced awake by accidentally inhaling the water that was dirty with all my body's filth. And then I was racked with coughs that left my throat sore and raspy and my chest aching from the force. Maybe I should just hop in the shower instead after a long day and give up on baths all together. There was no possible way for me to fall asleep in the shower, and I wouldn't take the risk of drowning myself, or almost doing so.  
  
        Once I had calmed down enough to function somewhat properly, I carefully set about getting ready for bed -- drained the water from the tub, dried off, shut off my alarm before it went off again as it had defaulted to snooze, and brushed my hair and teeth. Then I finally changed into my pajamas. They were satin -- not my favorite, but everything else was in the laundry -- and hot pink with white trim; a button up top with short sleeves and a pocket over the left breast, and a pair of shorts. Aunt Jo and Judy had joined forces with Aunt Billie, Grace, and Alma, and the five of them gifted them to me last year for Christmas. So I still used them for that reason, but it was very seldom.  
  
       Clearing my throat, I noticed with much irritation that it had become rather scratchy, so I gently tossed my phone down on my bed and decided that perhaps a glass of water could help relieve not only the raspiness of my throat, but the frenzy my nerves had gone into. Just one glass of water to grant myself some time to soothe my frenzied nerves, to relax, and to think over what it was that I had seen when I'd drifted off in the bath. And hopefully, judging by the silence of the house that indicated everyone else had succumbed to their own weariness, that peace of mind I yearned for could be easily achieved.  
  
        With a sigh, I made my way over to my door and pulled it open, revealing something other than the darkened hallway I was fully expecting. There was a tall, dark form already towering inside my doorway, as though waiting for me.  
  
        I slowly backed away in fear. It was the same figure from my dream. Tall, towering physique, strikingly dark eyes, black latex clinging tightly to the lean form. Was I dreaming now? Had I not woken up? Was I actually still in the bath, so tired that even my alarm couldn't rouse me? Surely someone would hear it going off and come wake me up. I had locked the door, but surely I would be able to hear if they pounded on the door, right?  
  
        The figure advanced towards me quicker than I could force my legs to move. Even through my fear, I could make out the door behind him slamming shut and heard the lock turn -- on its own. He never touched it, as he was far too preoccupied with me. I screamed as he suddenly lunged at me and, at the last possible second, threw my body to the side. It was with a small amount of satisfaction that my sudden dodge took the figure off guard and caused him to stumble. Unfortunately, it had also knocked me off balance, sending me into my desk; my side crumpled over the edge as my hip slammed roughly into it.  
  
        He recovered before I could reach the door. My fingers had just grazed the knob when I was harshly yanked back by my hair. I cried out as his hand, twisted painfully into the damp locks, forced my neck to bend back at an uncomfortable angle in order to prevent my hair from actually being ripped out of my scalp. He used this grip as control as he then turned us around before suddenly shoving me facedown onto the bed. His hand found its way to the back of my head, keeping my face pressed into my pillow, while his other hand used its freedom to rip away the bottom half of my clothes.  
  
        My cries were muffled as he lifted my hips and fully sheathed himself inside of me in a single moment. I clenched my eyes shut and prayed to be woken up. It became a mantra inside my head:  _Please wake up. Please wake up. This isn't real, just wake up!_  If it had been a different situation, I would have reveled in the similarity between me and Freddy Krueger's victims.  
  
        Everything hurt. It was so much more painful than the last time. His thrusts were more forceful, more violent. When he noticed I was no longer struggling, he removed his hand from my head and instead moved both of them down to my hips, gripping them tightly and using that as leverage to increase the power of his thrusts by pulling me back to meet him each time. My fingers curled into my sheets just to have something tangible to hold onto while the mantra in my head encouraged my mouth to follow along with it in a strained, whispered plea.  
  
        "Please wake up. Please wake up. Please wake up. Please wake up."  
  
        I repeated those three words over and over, as though saying them out loud would help them come true. But the more I pleaded, the longer I was stuck there at his mercy, the more I was forced to realize that I wasn't dreaming. The more I was faced with the reality that this was actually happening, and there was a great possibility, almost without any doubt, that last time was not a dream either. And that realization crushed me.  
  
        With a shudder, he snapped his hips against mine and stilled, his hands squeezing my own hips tighter before he slumped over me, seemingly pacing himself, and hung his head so it rested between my satin-covered shoulder blades. I tried to focus on my breathing so I wouldn't end up hyperventilating or passing out due to lack of proper oxygen intake. The moment of 'peace' wasn't meant to last, however, as the figure lifted himself off of me, only to turn me over so I was now lying on my back. He settled himself between my legs as his fingers worked at the buttons on my top. I lifted my own hands and tried to push his away, desperate to save what small amount of dignity I had remaining, but he just became frustrated with me and ripped it open the rest of the way. Buttons were torn off and flew in scattered directions.  
  
        A sob caught in my throat as he guided himself into me once more, this time considerably more gentle, before taking both of my breasts in his hands, kneading them in sync with his slower thrusts. The softer rhythm allowed my body to respond to his ministrations. My abdominal muscles clenched and a familiar heat pooled at the intersection between my thighs. Soft pants began to replace my cries of pain as that pain was gradually transformed into something much better. I tried to stop it, I really did, but his next thrust forced a moan out of me, an admission of how good it felt.  
  
        Shame burned through me at the sound. He paused, his obscure eyes peering down at me, before he angled his hips and resumed a quicker rhythm with slightly more force behind it. I clenched my eyes shut and tried to deny the arousal. It was wrong for me to react this way. It was wrong for me to be aroused by my own rape. _Wrong. This is wrong!_ But, I couldn't help it. Each thrust sent me closer and closer to the edge. The more I fought it, the faster it approached.  
  
        As though sensing my inner struggle, he brought a hand down between us to the apex of my thighs, rubbing circles around the sensitive bud. That was all it took for me to come undone. His other hand quickly shot up and clasped over my mouth, muffling the cry of guilty pleasure that was forced past my lips. He halted in his movements as he finally reached his own release, waiting for my body to come down from its high before slowly removing his hand when I had been reduced to nothing more than shameful whimpers. My eyes fluttered open sluggishly and, through the thin layer of tears, I was able to see his dark eyes trained on my face, drinking in my reaction. The hand that had covered my mouth came back up to stroke my cheek with a surprisingly gentle touch.  
  
        Feeling my earlier weariness return to me full strength, I didn't bother fighting as my eyelids became heavier and heavier with every blink, but my mind still kept whirring with thoughts. The thoughts were a mix between shame, guilt, and blame; they were all rather insulting towards myself. Shame and guilt because I had enjoyed the assault on my body, again, and blame because I had allowed myself to enjoy it. All I could think was that I was a dirty, no-good . . . _whore_ , for enjoying that, for being aroused during it. I was a slut. Tate had been right.  
  
        His face swam in my mind even as I felt myself slip into that abyss that could possibly grant me with that peace I had been searching for, for what had seemed like forever now. Even if it was only for a few hours. He had been right. His words had seemed harsh at the time, and they still stung when I recalled them, but they had been true. I realized that now.  
  
        I was just some slut on whom he shouldn't waste his time. If only I had realized that before I had sent him away, before he actually saw me for who I was and ran for the hills. He had been too good for me. And now I had no one. Now, I was left alone to wallow in everything, with no one I could talk to.  
  
        I was fated to suffer alone.

* * *

**I know I've said this before, but I get extremely awkward when writing out scenes like this. But this one was actually somewhat important, as it marks the beginning of a 'different' Abbie, if you will. A lot of shit is about to be thrown her way, and this is essentially just the tip of the iceberg.**


	16. Parturiency

A groan left me as I kneeled by the ceramic bowl, spitting into the collective liquids to rid my mouth of the acrid taste of bile. The back of my throat burned from the forceful expulsion of the contents of my stomach. Tears involuntarily collected in my eyes from the unpleasant function.  
  
        The hands that had been generously holding my hair back disappeared as I rested my flushed cheek against the cooler plastic of the seat. Water flowed from the faucet of the nearby sink, running only for a few seconds before being turned off once more. My eyes moved to the young woman bending down to my level.  
  
        I hadn't worked with her too often, but when I'd come in for my shift today, I easily recognized her as Eva. She wasn't the typical nineteen year old girl who blended in with the crowd. Her fashion sense was outside the boundaries of what society deemed as 'normal,' and she altered her appearance further to match the uniqueness of her clothing. Her hazel eyes were always lined in a substance as dark as kohl. A beanie always covered the top of her blonde hair, which was usually swept to the side and loosely braided, proudly displaying the streaks of purple she'd had dyed in. What really marked her appearance, however, was her silver labret piercing centered just below her bottom lip. It was a beacon in comparison to the matching, more mundane hoop she had through her left nostril.  
  
        Eva lifted my head and pressed a handful of damp paper towels to the area above my eyes. Her lips were pulled together in a thin line of concern as she gently dabbed at my face. She sighed and shook her head. "You are in no shape to be here today, love. This is the third time you've been in this position since you came in this morning."  
  
        Her voice usually brought a smile to my face. It was her accent. She had come to the United States from England when she was six, so when she spoke, her original English accent intertwined and twisted in with her gradually assimilated Californian dialect. But not even she could part my cracked lips while I was hunched over the toilet in the employee's bathroom. Nothing could make me smile in that situation.  
  
        "Yes, but nothing happened the first two times," I reminded her, my throat slightly croaky and raspy from the stomach acid. "I'll be fine, it'll pass. Just . . ." My stomach churned violently once more, and I swatted her hand away, gripping the sides and leaning over the bowl in preparation for what I felt coming; the scent of freshly ground coffee beans wafting in from the front from the air vents causing my mouth to fill with saliva, I groaned, "Just give me a minute."  
  
        This wasn't my first time getting sick today. The first time had been when I had been preparing my morning coffee. As soon as I had begun pouring the scalding caffeine into my travel mug, the aroma that I normally loved smelling in the morning had suddenly made me nauseated, and I'd had to literally run out of the room to reach the bathroom in time. Mom had insisted I stay home, but as I wasn't running a fever or anything, I'd went ahead and gone on to work, but decided to forgo my usual hot beverage. Then I started feeling queasy shortly after I'd begun my shift. It wasn't the normal type of queasy, like I had the flu or any sort of stomach virus; this was distinctly different, but I couldn't make out what made it so. I'd had to run to the bathroom twice for false alarms.  
  
        My third alarm, unfortunately, had not been false. Eva had been kind enough to stay at my side and hold my hair back while I got sick. I'd found it odd that she was being so nice to me, as we'd never actually conversed aside from what was required behind the counter to do our job, but at the same time, I found it touching. She was definitely braver than I was if she could so readily handle both the sight and sound of someone getting physically ill. I could barely even handle it when it was me getting sick.  
  
        Eva sighed and gathered my hair in her hands once more, kneeling beside me as I hung my head pitifully over what had already been forced up my esophagus, my eyes closed so I didn't actually have to look at it while I waited for more to come. "Well, you can't very well hand out pastries in this condition, can you? You'll infect our entire customer base," she scolded. Her tone, while still light, had adopted a maternal note that I hadn't expected from the woman who was only two years older than me -- and hadn't paid me much mind until recently.  
  
        "It'll pass," I repeated weakly, closing my eyes as another wave of nausea rolled over me; thankfully this one was weaker and didn't end in me heaving into the toilet bowl. "Just -- Give me another minute to recuperate."  
  
        The coffee grinder sparked to life once more. As the beans were flattened and crushed, their natural aroma was released into the air and again found the vents to be a means of transportation, using them to permeate the air around us. Much to my distress, I felt the watery secretion flood my mouth, which was instantly followed up by that warm, putrid sensation crawling up the back of my throat. My abdominal muscles ached from the constant spasms needed to force everything up the esophagus.  
  
        "Well, as much as I believe _that_ ," Eva chided, one of her hands floating down to rub my back, "That still doesn't change the fact that you cannot work in this condition. It is illegal for any employee to be on shift while expelling bodily fluids of any kind." She huffed and stood up, grabbing the wet paper towels again and handing them off to me. "You are going home, Abigail, whether you like it or not. Now clean yourself up, I'm going to let Jeanine know you are taking the rest of the day off to 'recuperate.'"  
  
        It was with a slight twinge of annoyance that I watched her roll her eyes before exiting the bathroom before I could protest any further. But I knew there was nothing I could do but obey because she was right. It was not legal nor sanitary for me to continue working while I was getting sick. Although I knew I wasn't ill, at least not in the traditional sense, I still didn't know what was wrong with me -- or why it seemed to be the scent of coffee that triggered it. I loved that refreshing aroma. At least I used to. My body apparently changed its mind without consulting me first. This was going to be a real problem if it consisted, considering I worked at a coffee shop, and I could not function throughout the day without having coffee in me.  
  
        Once I was certain I was done, I staggered to my feet and hit the handle on the toilet, closing the lid over the liquids swirling down through the pipes. My mind was a whirlwind of chaos as I tried to piece together what was causing this. I didn't actually _feel_ sick, and as far as I could tell, I had only developed an aversion to the smell of coffee for whatever reason. Even though I was throwing up periodically, I didn't have a fever, and I did feel fairly well aside from a lingering nausea. I raised my eyes to meet those of my reflection as I finished cleaning myself up, taking note of the bags that had formed underneath them; they weren't new, I'd had them for a couple of days, but they just seemed puffier and more prominent to me now. Nothing I did seemed to get rid of them. Of course, I hadn't really been sleeping well recently, either. Maybe it was my lack of sleep that was causing me to get sick?  
  
        That line of reasoning almost worked to convince me until my eyes fell on something reflected back in the mirror. Like nearly every restroom in public places,  _Cafecito Organico_  offered feminine hygiene products via dispensers that only cost around two to four quarters, depending on which type and brand you were going for. And, like every female on the planet, I was dependent on them once a month for three to five days for about thirty-five years. But I hadn't used them in a while. I hadn't had to.  
  
        My mouth went dry. The numbers swirled around the inside of my head with dizzying velocity. No matter how many times I did the math, or redid it, I always wound up with the same result. While that would have been ideal in school, always reaching the same final number no matter the method, it was borderline devastating right now. At the very least it was anxiety-inducing and worrisome.  
  
        There was something wrong. I had made a mistake somewhere in the numbers, I had miscalculated. The result I had reached was not the right one. It couldn't be. There was absolutely no way that it was correct.  
  
        The door swung open, and through my chaotic thought-induced semi-tunnel vision, I was just able to make out Eva's form as she stepped inside. "'Kay, Miss Abbie, Jeanine has delivered her official order regarding this situation, and guess what? You are to go home right this instant and get some rest."  
  
        Her words were muffled. It was like my head had been submerged in water. I heard her, and I did hear her, but she sounded far away and distorted. What she said went in one year and out the other. None of it stuck.  
  
        She frowned and shifted her weight, concern flashing across her expression. "Are you all right? You're quite pale. More so than usual," she noted.  
  
        The only thing I could get my body to do at that moment was continue to grip the sink. My fingers curled inwards underneath the counter so hard that the edge was biting into my skin and my knuckles had probably gone white. That grasp was the only thing keeping me grounded. It was my sole sense of reality. If I were to let go, I would surely delve into a world created by a fantastical state of mind in which no human was ever meant to visit. At least that's what it felt like.  
  
        "Abbie. Abigail, can you hear me?" Eva's shoes slapped lightly against the linolelum as she tentatively made her way over to where I stood. "Abigail, this isn't funny. Answer me." A dainty hand landed on my shoulder, and out of some internal, involuntary reflex, my eyes snapped to her; I must have looked pretty wild, judging by the way she automatically flinched back and recoiled her hand as I finally reacted to her. "Goodness, Abbie, what the hell is the matter with you?"  
  
        Her mouth was moving to form the words, and my ears took them in, but my mind refused to process the sounds. I was able to register how concerned she was, but I couldn't force any reassurances out in return. Nothing would come out. All I was able to do was continue staring at her. She probably thought I had lost my mind all together. And who knows? Maybe I had. That would be the only logical explanation as to how I kept circling back to that same number, that same result that just could not accurate, no matter how many times the calculations were performed. It couldn't be right. It couldn't be, and it wasn't. It just wasn't.  
  
         _But what if it is? What if you're right? What if this is the only result you're getting because it's the only result possible? What if you're really in trouble?_  
  
        Eva frowned and extended her hand towards my forehead. "Seriously, Abbie, what's wrong? You look dreadful."  
  
         _If only she knew how dreadful your thoughts were right now. You can't tell her what's wrong. She'll think you've lost your mind. Even if it is true, which it is_ not _. You hear me, Abigail Ruth Harmon? Put this silly nonsense out of your head, forget about it, and carry on like everything is fine. Because everything_ is _fine. You know it is._  
  
        My thoughts were at war with one another. One side was considering the possibility while the other was fervently denying it. The battle stirred up such a ruckus that an ache had begun to settle at my temples. They clashed and fought, colliding into each other with such intensity, before finally reaching a compromise.  
  
        "Seriously, Abbie, come --"  
  
        _Help!_  
  
        "I gotta go," I muttered.  
  
        Eva's voice cut off as I brushed by her and exited the bathroom. My feet carried me through the front, past the counter and Jeanine, who looked at me with the same consternation as Eva. They didn't stop until I had reached my car and was sitting behind the wheel. The keys had been inserted into the ignition, my seatbelt had been clicked into place, and the gear had been shifted into reverse. I was pulling out into traffic before I even had another chance to think about everything.  
  
        What was I going to do about this? If this was real, if I hadn't made a silly mistake in the math like I was so desperately hoping for, I needed to figure out what was going to happen. So many scenarios could arise from this possible situation. So many paths it could go down, so many endings it could reach. And, seeing as how I couldn't even begin to wrap my mind around what was possibly going on, all of them seemed just as unlikely as the next.  
  
        Before I knew it, my car was parked in front of the house I had spent many summers in as a kid, had visited many times. I stayed in my car for a second, my eyes taking in the familiar structure; the lights were on, all of them in the front visible due to the giant glass pane that covered the wall right next to the garage, which stuck out a little bit to separate it from the rest of the house -- even the front door was glass. Around the side was a tall wooden fence that shielded the backyard from prying eyes. Violet and I, along with our cousins a lot of the time, used to have so much fun playing back there, or hunting for Easter eggs if we were able to come up during the season.  
  
        I missed those days. When everything was simple and uncomplicated, when I was too young and too carefree to have any worries aside from which flavor of ice cream I was going to have. Now everything was so complex and so taxing. It really sucked being an adult -- or almost an adult, anyway. For someone who would still be considered a minor for about ten more months, I had managed to get myself into quite the adult situation, which I wasn't exactly patting myself on the back for accomplishing.  
  
         _You've really fucked up, Abbie, if you're right about this. Worrying about the hypothetical is vastly different from how you're gonna worry with the real thing. You are only seventeen, out of high school but not in college, living with your dysfunctional family in a damn house that has seen more murders than Alfred Hitchcock has written and filmed, and your sole source of personal income is a part-time job as a barista at some coffee shop. If anyone has to get their life together before something this big, it's you, and you haven't done that. You're not ready for this. You better hope you're wrong or your life and any opportunity you might have in the future is going to be ruined._  
  
        By the time I had walked up to the front and knocked on the glass, I had worked myself up into another panic. This one didn't render me frozen or zoned out. The panic I was feeling now had my heart racing past a normal pace and my lungs unable to draw in enough air. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply, still composed enough to register that if I kept it up, I was probably going to throw myself into a full-blown panic attack. My chest tightened as I felt that all-too-familiar burn at the backs of my eyes that warned me of what was about to be unleashed if I wasn't able to remain somewhat calm.  
  
        At the sound of the door opening, I opened my eyes to see Marion standing there, consternation drawing her expression down and making her look older. "Abigail? What are you doing here, sweetie?" she questioned. Her brow furrowed as she glanced over me, clearly surprised to see me at her doorstep as it had been an unexpected visit -- for the both of us.  
  
        I swallowed and tried to blink away the stinging in my eyes. "I . . ." The one syllable fell from my lips, and I had to pause to take a deep breath, which I noticed was shaky and uneven, to keep everything held back and at bay. Breaking down now would not accomplish anything, and I know that once I do, my words will become incoherent and I would not be able to explain what was going on. "I'm -- I think I'm -- I'm in trouble," I managed to choke out after a second of composing myself. My heart felt like it was about to beat right out of my tightened chest as I finally admitted out loud that it might be true. The audible words suddenly made the possibility very real, and that was very terrifying to me.  
  
        Marion's features clouded over with her confusion, replacing her initial surprise and accompanying her growing concern. I supposed I probably should have phrased that better. Saying I was in trouble opened a broad range of possibilities. Not to mention it was troubling in itself, and that was clear as Marion had become visibly distressed upon my admittedly vague announcement. But I couldn't bring myself to voice just yet why I thought I was in trouble. Admitting aloud that I might be in trouble was scary enough for me without the clarifying words coming from my mouth as well.  
  
        "Trouble?" Marion echoed with no small amount of worry laced within her tone; her eyes flicked back and forth over my face as she openly scrutnized me, searching for something that she either did or did not find, as she then held open the door for me and waved me inside. "Come on, I'll get Lana and the three of us can talk about whatever it is, okay?"  
  
        Struggling to keep a cap on everything I felt simmering just below the surface, I nodded and stepped past her into the house in which I already had so many memories. I couldn't help but muse that another memory was about to be made there. This one just wasn't as pleasant as most of the others. My eyes moved over the walls, which were covered in framed photos of various members of our family. A wall of good memories.  
  
        A small, thin smile worked its way onto my face, despite my current situation, at the photos of my grandparents, Kit and Mary Allison Walker. They had been taken when they were both young, before Grandpa Kit had been diagnosed with cancer. Her blonde hair was shiny with health and her olive eyes were sparkling with mirth. It was so different from how I last remembered her as she lied in the hospital. His hair was a rich golden-brown, short and with a slight natural curl, and his dark brown eyes were intense with life. He had been a very handsome man; I could see why Grandma had fallen for him.  
  
        Both Lana and Mom liked to tell me I looked just like my grandmother. And, as I examined her portrait, I could definitely see the resemblance. The rounded face, the slightly elongated eyes, the small nose, the defined cupid's bow -- I had gotten it all from her. We even seemed to share the same build. The only obvious difference was our hair and eyes. I had gotten Ben's dark hair, though mine was a lighter shade, whereas Grandma Mary’s had been a beautiful flaxen shade that had been much lighter than my mother's. The green of my eyes had come straight from her, but hers had been darker, deeper; like the irises had become more obscure so as to hide a past pain that had never left her.  
  
        The longer I stared at the photographs, the more I wondered how they would have reacted if I had shown up on their doorstep instead. Especially my grandmother, since she was the only one I had actually met and known. She had been so accepting of everyone and supportive of their decisions and lifestyles. But how accepting and supportive would she had been if I had been able to come to her with this situation? I couldn't imagine anything other than disappointment, not only from her but from everyone else -- Lana, Marion, Mom -- as well, and that thought wiped every single trace of my smile off of my face like it had never been there in the first place.  
  
        The clicking of heels against the hardwood floor made me turn to see Lana coming down the hall. Set on her face was the tight-lipped frown she adopted when she was distressed. My announcement had been enough to upset us all, even though I hadn't specified what 'trouble' meant. Seeing her like that made me feel guilty for burdening them with my issue when it was really my fault to begin with. Maybe I should have just gone home and wallowed in this alone.  
  
        "Abigail, sweetheart," Lana fretted as she sidled up to me, her brow furrowed, making her appear older and more like her eighty-one years. "Marion told me you were in trouble; what's going on, what's wrong?"  
  
        I stared at her. My mouth opened, but no sound escaped. There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her what was going on, what I had been going through; I wanted to apologize for bothering her and Marion, and apologize for disappointing or even angering them with what I knew I could not avoid voicing much longer. But my brain refused to channel any of it through my vocal cords, and I was left standing there with my mouth gaping like a fish, probably looking extremely foolish. I certainly felt stupid -- stupid for allowing things get to this point.  
  
        Lana sighed. "All right, come on. Marion's brewing up some tea for all of us. We're gonna sit down and figure this out, whatever it is." She wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gently tucked me into her side. "Which means you'll have to tell us what's going on, okay?" Her voice had adopted that loving yet stern tone that meant I had come too far to back out now; I had to tell them.  
  
        So I nodded my head and let her lead me into the little sitting room. She sat me down on the cream-colored sofa, taking some of the decorative pillows and tossing them aside on one of the matching armless chairs that sat on the opposite side of the round, black table sitting in the middle of the room. I played with my fingers as my hands lay innocently in my lap; my eyes lowered and locked onto my twiddling thumbs in an effort to not look at Lana. Her clear concern for me just made me feel that much worse about the whole situation. Especially the part where I was going to either anger or just severely disappoint her -- and I didn't like either of those outcomes.  
  
        Lana left to go help Marion in the kitchen. My ears picked up hushed conversation, but due to their careful whispering, I was unable to make out any discernible words. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out they were talking about me. That much was obvious; I had showed up at their house without warning and claimed I needed hel, what else would they be discussing? I sighed and leaned back, sinking into the cushions as I shut my eyes, pressing the heels of my palms into them as though that would rid of all my stress. As though it would solve the problem at hand and make everything better.  
  
        But, of course, it did not. And I was forced to face reality when my honorary grandmothers entered the sitting room with a tray of three steaming mugs. The soothing scent of chamomile wafted to me, which would have been relieving had it not been mixed with another familiar scent, one that I had found heavenly up until recently. Upon the first whiff, whatever contents remaining in my stomach roiled, and I quickly switched to breathing solely through my mouth in an effort to quell my body's recently acquired instinct to purge itself.  
  
       "Your grandmother always used to say that 'chamomile soothes the soul,'" Lana reminisced, handing over my cup, which I was relieved to see was actually filled with tea. "She would always make some when things got stressful." The tray was emptied and set aside as we all clutched our hot drinks. "She also used to say that keeping things bottled up and allowing them to ferment instead of talking about them destroys it." She lowered herself down onto the couch beside me, taking a careful sip of her black coffee while Marion sat in the chair with her tea. "So, with that in mind, what's troubling you, Abigail?"  
  
        I stared at the dark liquid steaming in her mug with distaste before lifting my own to my lips and cautiously spilling the hot liquid into my mouth. It was more of a move used to bide time rather than to quench thirst. Plus I was hoping that the chamomile would help soothe my nerves before I ran down the clock and no longer had an excuse to delay giving a response. Both women were looking at me expectantly. They weren't going to let me back my way out of this even if I could somehow manage to figure out how to do so. Which, as far as I could see, was impossible.  
  
        So I sighed and focused my gaze down at the calming liquid swirling around in my cup. But when I tried to come up with the words, I couldn't. I couldn't bring myself to speak. Part of me was afraid that if I opened my mouth, words would not be the only thing to come out, that they would be accomanied by unbridled emotions that were currently restrained underneath the surface. They were being held back, but just barely, like one last string was keeping them at bay, but that string was stretched thin and on its last threads. The other part of me was afraid of how they would react. I didn't want them to be mad at me. They were the last people I could honestly turn to, and if that was taken away from me, especially because of something that I did, I didn't know what I would do. I had no one else. They were like my oasis, my safe haven, and I needed them now more than I ever had before. That security was something I couldn't afford to lose.  
  
        "Whatever it is, dear, you can tell us," Marion assured me, clearly able to sense my internal struggle and reluctance. "You can tell us anything, you know that."  
  
        Her voice was enough to shake me out of my thoughts. What she said, that I could tell them anything, resonated with me because I knew she was right. Neither of them had ever once judged me for what I said or did. Both of them had always been there for me when I needed them. Even when I didn't think I did in a certain moment. They were the only ones I could come to about this, and I had to tell them. This wasn't something I could do alone.  
  
        I swallowed and forced the words out of my mouth.  
  
        "There's this boy, Tate, he's -- he's one of Ben's patients. He was always finding his way into my room. At first I thought it was weird and -- and invasive, but he just kind of grew on me. He's real easy to talk to, always ready to listen . . . Ben told me to stay away from him, but I couldn't. I wish I would have listened. It soon became clear that he was unstable, and the moment I felt endangered, I told him to stay away. I didn't want him anywhere me or Violet."  
  
        For obvious reasons, I had chosen to leave out certain elements, like what had happened down in the basement and the fact that he was more than likely a clinically diagnosed psychopath. As I talked, I also decided that I wasn't going to mention my nighttime visitor, the figure in the rubber suit. At least for now. I wasn't ready to talk about that yet. So I remained focused on Tate as I relayed the story to Lana and Marion.  
  
        "But the night that those people broke in, when they were going to recreate that murder, he saved us. I still don't know why he was there, but if it hadn't been for him, we probably wouldn't have made it. After that night, I had trouble sleeping, so finally I just swiped some Xanax from Ben's office. I shouldn't have done it, but I just wanted to be able to sleep; I only took one. Tate showed up at my window -- he had climbed up the tree -- and I let him inside. He stayed with me for a while, held me and talked to me; it felt nice, knowing he was there. I realized I hadn't properly thanked him for saving us, for saving Mom and Violet, and at this point the Xanax had kicked in. So I . . . thanked him the only way I knew how . . ."  
  
        Tears had begun filling my eyes as I geared myself up to say why I was in trouble. Hopefully they remained unnoticed by the two older women, both of whom were silent as I spoke, as I had yet to look up from my tea. I could feel the floodgates opening, creating a clear passage for all my emotions, which were becoming rather restless the longer I talked, to escape through. Everything was about to be let go whether I liked it or not.  
  
        I took in a shaky breath, blinking away the moisture collecting in my eyes, and finished, "And now I -- I think -- I think I'm -- I think I'm pregnant, and I -- I'm scared, and I don't know what to do."  
  
        As soon as the word 'pregnant' left my mouth, everything I had been holding back was released. Saying it out loud made it really hit me that I was in this situation. It was no longer a hypothetical. I was actually facing the probability of me carrying a child in my womb. As terrified as I was when I admitted aloud that I might be in trouble, I was even more so now that I acknowledged the actual state of that trouble. I was petrified.  
  
        Time seemed to stop as we all sat there, me panicking and them processing; I had no clue how long it was, with the only sounds being my sobs which I failed to suppress, but it didn't feel like too much time had passed before someone moved and broke the tension that had formed around us. Lana set her coffee down on the table, the scent of which was still fighting with me, before removing my tea from my hands and placing it beside hers. She then, murmuring quiet words of comfort and gently shushing me, wrapped her arms around my trembling frame and pulled me into her side. That action provoked Marion and her tea was forgotten as she moved from her chair to sit down on the sofa beside me, laying one soft hand on my leg and the other on my back, her voice accompanying Lana's with the same comforting murmurs.  
  
        After a little while, every second of which I spent curled up into Lana's side unable to stop the flow of tears that had been released with the announcement, Marion suddenly pulled away and stood up. I peered up at her through the moisture causing my eyelashes to clump and stick to the skin around my puffy eyes. Much to my surprise, her face didn't display any disappointment or anger, but instead it showed nothing but a maternal consternation and maybe a hint of shock still shone in her eyes. The knowledge that she wasn't upset with me, at least not outwardly from what I could see, just made me cry harder as relief seeped inside and mixed with everything else.  
  
        "I'm going to run to the drugstore and pick up a test," Marion said, her voice soft and tender as she gazed down at me in the most vulnerable state I had ever been in that I could remember. "Just to be safe, so we know for sure." She sighed quietly and bent down, wrapping her arms around both Lana and me in an awkward embrace before kissing both the top of my head and Lana's cheek. "Everything is gonna be all right, Abbie. Lana's gonna stay here with you, you're not alone. I'll be back soon."  
  
        Her assurance that I wasn't alone proved to me that they were still here for me. Those words were almost enough to assure me that they would still be here if it turned out that I _was_ pregnant. But I still had that lingering doubt. That little voice in my head was telling me not to get my hopes up because they could back out at any moment and leave me on my own. As much as I didn't want to listen to it and wanted to believe with all my heart that Lana and Marion would never do that, that they would help me through this no matter the outcome, I couldn't get rid of that small amount of fear that I would be left alone to deal with this. And that scared me even more.  
  
        I felt so powerless and vulnerable. There was nothing I could do about any of this. All I could do was wait and see which outcome I would get.


	17. Unspeakable Bonds

Seventeen. That's how old I was, how many years since I'd been born. And I hadn't even been seventeen for a full two months. The twenty-third of August had marked my seventeenth year being out of my mother's womb, and it was just barely the second week of October now. Although it seemed like much more time had passed since my birthday with everything that had been going on with the cross-country move. But it had indeed only been one full month and a few extra days since I'd come one year closer to being a legal adult.  
  
        Yet I was going to be a mother.  
  
        Correction: I _was_ a mother. A child was already growing inside of me. In only nine months, a time frame that was much too quick for me to readily accept, I was going to be holding a baby -- _my_ baby -- in my arms for the first time. A human, a tiny human made half of my own DNA, was going to be completely dependent on about a month before I was even an adult in the eyes of the law. That knowledge was overwhelming. It was surreal, like it wasn't me it was happening to, but to someone else entirely; someone who had just taken up residence inside my body.  
  
        Should I have been happy about it? Because I wasn't. But I wasn't necessarily  _un_ happy about it either. I couldn't really sort out  _how_  I felt. Scared, nervous, worried. Yes, I was all three of those, but at the same time, I felt numb. Was that even possible? How could I be this ball of anxiety but still be numb to everything around me? To me, it was almost as though all of my emotions had redirected and were being focused on the life growing in my womb, leaving me with nothing to feel from anything else.  
  
        But it wasn't just the result of the test that was causing my emotional turmoil. I wished it was just that, but it wasn't. It was also the unknown. That was the scariest, as well as the most stressful, part out of this whole mess. And that didn't just include how my parents would react when I told them, how I was _going_ to tell them in the first place, how I was going to support both me and a baby, if anything was going to go wrong during -- it would have been much too easy if those were the only unknowns in the situation. The biggest unknown, the most troubling mystery, was the identity of the father.  
  
        There were two people who could have fathered this child. I wanted the baby to be Tate's. As much as I didn't want the baby to be his, I did, and I told myself that he was the father. It was much better than the alternative, the only other option available. But no matter how much I told myself that the one night, that one mistake, with Tate had created this baby, I couldn't shake off the dread that came with the lurking suspicion that the baby didn't share Tate's DNA because Tate was not actually the father. And that possibility was enough to wound every negative emotion into a little knot and settle in the pit of my stomach as it only served to add to the anxiety I was already experiencing.  
  
        When the thought had occurred to me, I had become so panicked, much more than I was before, that I had confided in Lana. I had done so without thinking about how she would react, if she would perceive the story as some part of an overactive imagination or tell me I was just dreaming, like I originally thought I had been the first time. But instead, Lana had been supportive and comforting, and she even relayed to me a story from her past that, despite how shocking I had found it, kind of made me feel like I really wasn't alone.  
  
         _My hands darted up to wipe at my face as Lana leaned back. They were soon brushed out of the way by her own, as she tucked my hair behind my ears before gently cupping my face, using her thumbs to wipe away the moisture that trailed down my cheeks in steady rivulets. "There's something more going on here, isn't there?" she inquired softly, tilting my head so she was looking in my eyes. There was no judgement in her tone, no sign of disappointment or anger anywhere in her aged features; there was only a burning curiosity and concern and maternal or grandmotherly love.  
  
        My breath stuttered and hitched in my throat as I stared back at her knowing expression. It was as though she could tell I left out details when talking about Tate. But she didn't know what those details were. There was no possible way she could know what they were, because only I knew them and I hadn't told anyone anything. However, she _ wanted _to know what they were. She wanted me to tell her about Tate's probable psychophathy and the unidentified figure clad in the latex suit that had forcefully stolen my innocence and my dignity.  
  
        The thought of my nighttime visitor made me stop and think. He -- whoever he was -- had raped me, twice. No protection had been used either time. A knot of perpetual anxiety settled in the pit of my stomach as a disturbing connection was made within my mind. What had happened with Tate happened about a week ago. Women can show signs of pregnancy early on, but that seemed a little too early to be possible. But it had been approximately three weeks since my first encounter with the figure. That still seemed a little early in my opinion, but it certainly made more sense given the amount of time that had passed.  
  
        Nothing was certain. It could be either one, but the knot in my stomach only grew tightened at the realization. There was a very good chance that Tate was not the father. That this baby was a result of my rape. And that realization crushed me more than when I had discovered the dark visitor was real.  
  
        My expression must have changed with my thoughts, as Lana nodded her head and brushed back some of the hair on my forehead. "Talk to me, Abbie, what else is going on?" she pressed. She was firm, enough to tell me that it was an order and not a request, but she was gentle as she lowered her hands so they were lightly gripping mine, letting me know that she was here for me.  
  
        Swallowing around the lump in my throat, hoping I had composed myself enough so that my words would be coherent, I looked down at my lap and her hands covering my own. "There's this man," I started quietly, my voice trembling from the emotional impact of everything running through my mind. "I -- I don't know who he is, I've never actually seen him; he's always in this suit -- this black latex suit with a -- a mask that covers his head." My description brought the image of the figure to the front of my mind, those dark eyes of his peering into mine as he moved above me; I shuddered. "He's come twice, at night when everyone else is sleeping, but . . . At first I thought it was just a dream, that it wasn't real. No one ever heard me, my cries for help . . ." The trembling in my voice suddenly became more noticeable, and I trailed off, feeling more tears prick at my eyes as I recalled both encounters.  
  
        Lana's grip on my hands tightened marginally, but when I briefly glanced up at her, I couldn't tell if the pressure was supposed to be comforting or if it was an involuntary reflex stemming from the anger I assumed she felt from the murderous look on her face. She quickly schooled her expression when she noticed I was looking and adopted a more stoic one, but I could still see that anger. Her eyes were harder than I had ever seen them and alight with a certain fire that might have intimidated me had it been anyone else, and her lips were pressed together in that tight, firm line, much thinner than when I had worried her earlier.  
  
        She was silent until I lowered my eyes again and tried blinking away the tears, sniffling and not saying another word; I couldn't bring myself to speak around the lump in my throat, which had increased in size and become more painful. "What did he do?" Her voice was as tight as the thin line created by her mouth and revealed a carefully controlled vexation that simmered just below the surface. My eyes lifted to meet hers, and when I shook my head, unable to say the words out loud, her grip on my hands tightened further. Not enough to cause me any sort of physical pain, but enough to let me know how hard it was to control her dominant emotion in that moment. "What has he done to you, Abigail?" she repeated. This time was stronger and more demanding, and I knew I had to force it out; she needed to know _ now _.  
  
        "He's . . ." I took a deep breath, both hearing it stutter and feeling it in my chest. "He's raped me." Saying the words aloud, hearing them in my own voice, caused the tears gathering in my eyes to spill over and join the tracks already drying on my cheeks. "Why didn't anyone hear me? I scream and cry, and no one ever comes, no one helps me." Shifting on the couch, I winced slightly as my new position applied pressure to my right hip, pressing on the bruise that had formed when I hit the corner of my desk during the last attack; the dull ache caused my next words to come out in a whimper. "Why doesn't anyone help me?"  
  
        Lana made a restrained, strangled noise in the back of her throat before pulling me in and once more wrapping her arms around me to hold me close. Her entire body was rigid and tensed against my own quivering frame. Despite the close proximity between us, and the knowledge that both she and Marion had proven themselves to always be there for me, reliving the encounters brought back the sense of being alone. It was intense and settled over me like a dark, heavy cloud; a void had opened up in my chest, replacing the warm comfort and support that I had been provided. I was reminded once again that I truly _ was _alone in this, left isolated to wallow in the suffering. Just because Lana knew about it didn't mean she honestly understood what I was going through on any level other than a general empathy.  
  
        Her arms tightened just slightly around me as I felt her bury her face in my hair. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured sadly, though there was still a hint of underlying vexation in her changed tone. "I know you feel alone in this, like no one knows what you're going through, but I'm here, and I _ do  _know." She took a deep breath, exhaling all at once in a lengthy sigh, and leaned back, holding me at arm's length. Sympathy just barely concealed the hardness in her features._  
  
_A frown settled on my face as I stared back at her, blinking through the salty tears stinging my eyes. "No, you -- you don't. You can't possibly know what -- what I'm going through," I argued weakly, bringing my hands back up to rub at the irritating liquid. My voice cracked, the words broken up by a couple hiccups that usually presented themselves when I cried and got myself worked up._  
  
_"Abbie, there is a lot you do not know about me," Lana sighed, clasping her hands together in her lap, her mouth once again set in firm line. "There is also a lot you are going to learn, because I am going to tell you."  
  
        She waited patiently. I sniffled and lifted my eyes to meet hers, surprised to see a deep pain emerging to the surface of her irises, like it had been buried and hidden for years. When she noticed she had my attention, as undivided as I could offer at the moment, she began speaking.  
  
        "You already know that your grandfather was a patient at Briarcliff for some time and your grandmother was the psychologist there. But I was a patient there too; that's how we met. I had been caught sneaking in to get the story on his arrival, and the person in charge of running the institution blackmailed my lover Wendy into having me committed for homosexuality, which was seen as a mental illness back then."  
  
        My brow had furrowed as she spoke. I'd had no idea she had been a patient with my grandfather. All I'd ever been told was that she was a journalist who had helped my grandmother prove his innocence. She did say that I was going to learn a lot about her from what she was going to tell me, and I didn't know what I'd been expecting exactly, but it most certainly was not that.  
  
        "Kit, your grandfather, the crime he was accused of committing was horrible. I know you have never heard about that either, so I thought you should know now, while I'm telling you everything. There was this string of murders committed by a serial killer who identified himself as Bloody Face. He would take young women at night, and they would soon be found skinned and beheaded. No one knew who Bloody Face was, but they were quick to accuse your grandfather when his first wife -- a young, black woman -- went missing. They claimed to have discovered her body in the same state as Bloody Face's victims outside their house. Which later turned out to be falsified evidence, as she was alive and well at the time, but in some other, unknown location."  
  
        I blinked, vaguely registering that my tears had mostly dried, crusting my eyelashes and making it somewhat annoying to repeatedly lift my eyelids after they lowered. Grandma Mary had never told me anything more than he had been institutionalized on false charges. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that he would be accused of the murder of multiple women. The only part of what Lana just told me that didn't surprise me was that Grandpa had been married when they'd met. I had known he'd had a wife, and that Grandma and he had gotten married years after she had passed, the causes of which were still unknown to me. But I hadn't known that she was colored.  
  
        It didn't matter to me, but back then, that was wrong. It was technically illegal, as the ban on interracial marriage was not officially lifted until 1967, three years after Grandpa had been accused of murder. Knowing this, a small wave of pride broke through my despair; I was proud of my grandfather for choosing love over society, for not caring what anyone thought.  
  
        "I believed the lies. There was no evidence contradicting the accusation, so I had no reason not to believe that he was Bloody Face. Your grandmother, though, she knew he was innocent. He had this psychiatrist, Dr. Thredson, appointed to his case by the court; it was his job to determine whether he remained at Briarcliff or went to the electric chair. Mary Allison -- your grandmother -- she respected him on a professional level, but she never did fully trust him; she always seemed to be keeping a careful eye on him when they were in the same vicinity, and she never would say why that was. I later found out it was because she didn't know, she just had a bad feeling about him. And I soon discovered the reason behind it.  
  
        "Thredson approached me one night and said he was going to help me so I would be discharged. We tried aversion therapy, but nothing worked; I am who I am, and when he realized he wasn't going to change my preferences, he snuck me out and took me to his place. We had only been there a few minutes before things started clicking into place. He had this lamp with a weird shade, which had a nipple attached to it, and a bowl he was using for mints, it was carved out of a human skull. Then I found his workshop, his tools . . . and in the basement was Wendy's body; he'd killed her the one time I made the mistake of writing her a letter and asking him to deliver it to her, back when I trusted him. Before I knew he was Bloody Face.  
  
        "He kept me down in the basement, chained to this bed. I don't know how long I was there, I lost track after a bit, but I every time he left for work, I tried to find a way out of there, and every time he was home, I waited for him to kill me -- to skin me and cut my head off, just like every other woman he'd taken. Thredson was sick; he was the one who belonged to be locked away in Briarcliff, not me and certainly not your grandfather. He took those women so he could have a mother in his life, and apparently I was the perfect match, thirty-three years old and 'goddamn plucky.'  
  
        "I pissed him off once, when he'd found that I'd tried to escape, and he did try to kill me, but I wasn't ready, so I worked with what I had and managed to talk him out of it. But with what happened next, I wished he would have just killed me instead. He raped me. I wanted to die, I thought I _ was _dying, but at the same time, I wanted to live.  
  
        "That one time was all it took for me to get pregnant. I tried to abort it myself, and when that didn't work, I went to have it done 'professionally' after I was free. But I couldn't do it, so I carried to full term and gave birth to a baby boy. I didn't hate him, I just hated he was part of Thredson, and I didn't want anything to do with him, so I put him up for adoption."  
  
        Her voice remained strong throughout her story, but the emotion behind it was strong. I couldn't bring myself to say anything. The thoughts I had refused to come together to form any coherent speech. This was my first time hearing of any of this, and it took me back with surprise and, quite frankly, disgust. But not at Lana, just at the situation she had found herself in; how could someone do that to another person? It was then I realized that I really wasn't alone in this, that Lana _ did _know what I was going through, even if our situations were not exactly the same. She had been raped and impregnated like I probably had.  
  
        Lana's eyes searched my face before her hands found mine again, squeezing tightly as she said, "So don't you for another second think you are alone in this, because I _ do _know what you are going through, and I am going to help you through it."_  
  
        A car horn sounded behind me, dragging me out of my thoughts as I realized the light in front of me was now green. Sighing, I stuck my hand out the window in an apologetic wave before tapping the gas pedal, propelling my silver 2000 Audi A6 forward. My mind had been wandering ever since I left Lana and Marion's. Just with all that had gone on today and everything I'd learned; it had definitely taken its toll on me.  
  
        For a brief second, I allowed my eyes to slip away from the road and land on the foreign object in the front passenger side seat, tossed haphazardly along with my bag and phone. It was a book that Lana had given to me before I'd left. The cover had instantly caught my attention as it was a vibrant red with black and white words. _'Maniac'_ was written across the top in white, with the smaller _'One Woman's Story of Survival'_ underneath that in black, and then the name _'Lana Winters'_ in black at the very bottom.  
  
        It was a novelization of the story Lana relayed to me. Her story. But the one told in the book, she'd admitted, was dramatized and exaggerated, all so it would sell easier. She assured me that she had told me the whole truth, however, and even told me how my grandmother had even been held down in the basement with her for some time. It had actually been Grandma who had secured her escape, she'd said, and she never would have made it out if it hadn't been for her. That detail apparently hadn't made it into the book, something Lana expressed regret for, but she recalled how Grandma had actually been a little relieved that Lana hadn't mentioned her involvement, enjoying life outside of the spotlight.  
  
        As horrible as it was, even when just spoken inside my own head, it was comforting to me to know that someone else had gone through something similar to what I was dealing with right now. Lana's story _did_ make me feel less alone, like I _did_ have someone to turn to when needed, because they knew from a firsthand experience what it was like. That was something I had discovered upon hearing Lana's story, but it didn't really hit me until I was looking at the used test, reading the result.  
  
         _My heart was pounding as I shut off the timer on my phone, the required two minutes plus an extra recommended one having gone by, and approached the bathroom counter. Three tests -- all of them missing their translucent pink caps -- lie along the granite, seemingly innocent, just waiting to be read. Marion had bought an extra two to rule out a false reading and better assure the result with a possible two out of three. It had been a good idea, I supposed, as we definitely wanted to be sure and not constantly wonder if it had been a false result, which was a fairly common occurrence from what I understood.  
  
        The shuffling audible on the opposite side of the door let me know that Lana and Marion were still waiting out there, just as anxious as I was, for the result. They had been out there ever since I announced I had taken the test, and they didn't press me too much when I'd preferred staying locked inside the bathroom to wait out the timer. Those three minutes had allowed me a moment to just sit down and think without interruption. While waiting, I had tried to tell myself that either outcome would be all right, that I had support no matter what the test proved. But I really did hope that it came out negative. At seventeen years old, I was much too young to even be thinking about children, much less physically carrying one inside of me for nine months.  
  
        I took a deep breath and examined the white sticks displayed on the counter. My eyes focused on the oval in the middle of the plastic, which held the results; next to it was a key telling me that two lines meant pregnant and one line meant not pregnant.  
  
        Solid pink lines had appeared in the space. Two on each test. Positive, three times in a row._  
  
_After I had taken another moment to process the result, and to collect myself and my thoughts, I was a little more calm than when it was just a possibility. Now that I knew for sure, the haze and jumbled mess of my thoughts had lifted and untangled themselves, and I was able to think more clearly. I was pregnant, and possibly with my rapist's baby, but I wasn't alone; I had Lana, and I had Marion. Their support was all I needed until I was able to get everything figured out and sorted. And Lana had a similar experience, she knew what it was like, what I was going through right now. We had always been close, but with the revealing of her own story, we now had an unspeakable bond. I'd never be alone as long as I had her._  
  
        Something seemed off about the house when I pulled into the drive. More so than usual. It appeared to have an air of foreboding, a sense of danger, surrounding it. Like it was warning me off. _Probably a warning I should heed at this point_ , I thought dryly as I pulled the key out of the ignition, peering uneasily through my windshield at the vintage structure. Finally I sighed and gathered my belongings before forcing myself out of the car and up to the front door.  
  
        The sight I was met with as soon as I walked inside was enough for my anger to flare up at once. It was enough to make me momentarily forget everything else that had happened today; the anxiety, the despair, the fear -- all of it. In its place was pure, unadulterated anger that exuded itself as I forcefully slammed the door shut behind me, the sound echoing slightly in the open foyer.  
  
        Standing by the grand staircase next to Ben was Hayden McClaine. Her auburn hair had been straightened so it fell down to her chest, and her honey brown eyes had been lined in black, but I would recognize the combination anywhere. The tip of her nose was slightly reddened against her pale skin as though she'd been crying recently. Normally I might find it within me to feel at least a smidgen of sympathy if she had, and if she had been anybody else, but I felt nothing but anger towards the twenty-two year old woman who had willingly assisted Ben in destroying this family.  
  
        My mouth instantly twisted into a scowl upon seeing her. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?" I snapped, directing it at the slightly shorter woman, before realizing it probably wasn't her I should be asking. "Was Boston not enough for you, Ben? Or did you just want to christen those new sheets with your whore before we all got home?" If I focused hard enough, I swore I could feel my blood literally boiling within my veins. I had known Ben had abandoned us to be with her when we had gotten attacked, but I was foolish enough to think he would keep it _in_ Boston; _not_ bring her to the house when everyone else was out.  
  
        Ben looked very much like the child who had gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His eyes shifted uneasily, unable to rest on my face, which I could either chalk up to guilt -- which I highly doubted at this point -- or the sharp glare I was sending their way. Hayden, on the other hand, just glared back at me. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and her pink lips were pressed together.  
  
        "I'm not a whore!" she shouted at me, her cheeks tinting red. "I fucking matter!"  
  
        "Of course you do," I sneered back at her, ignoring Ben's attempt to console her as he placed a hand on her blazer-covered arm. "You matter so fucking much you have to pimp yourself out for grades _and_ attention." My narrowed eyes slid over to Ben. "You said you loved this family, you convinced Mom you were trying. You're nothing but a filthy, goddamn liar, and I hate you." Hurt instantly flashed across his expression at my words; deep down I felt a twinge as I spoke them, never having said them to either of my parents before, but my anger overrode any regret. "Now take your whore and get the fuck out of here; I can't even look at you anymore."  
  
        As soon as it left my mouth, I stalked past them and into the kitchen, listening to Ben console Hayden once again for me calling her a whore. Their footsteps echoed along the hardwood a few seconds later, accompanying their voices as they discussed going out to eat; I was fine ignoring them until Hayden's voice carried to me, a bit louder and more pronounced than her other words, "Well, I _am_ eating for two."  
  
        The front door was shut once more, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my head snapped towards the entrance, unable to believe what I had just heard.  
  
        Not only had Ben cheated multiple times on Mom with his -- now former -- student, but he had also gotten her pregnant. Hayden McClaine was pregnant with Ben Harmon's child. A woman half his age, near _my_ age, was carrying Violet's and my half-sibling. And she was carrying at the same time Mom was. The babies wouldn't be too far apart in age.  
  
        Sitting down at the little outcropping, a glass of iced water on the small table in front of me, I rested my head on my folded arms. All I could think about was how fucked up this family was. How fucked up it had been since Joel. Mom and Ben hadn't handled the miscarriage well, which led to Mom's earlier depression and Ben's infidelity, but that had all left me to clean up after them. Which I had obviously failed at doing. Now the mess they had created was just bigger and grimier, each event more soiled than the last.  
  
        I lifted my head and lowered a hand to rest on my abdomen. It was still flat, but it would soon start expanding to accommodate the life, a life who would share less than twenty-five percent of DNA with Hayden's child, growing inside of me. As I kept my hand on my stomach, I closed my eyes, imagining what was going to happen now. Things were so fucked up now, it was nothing to bring a child into. This family wasn't exactly what I wanted the baby to grow up knowing, thinking the way we functioned was _normal._ Because nothing about it was normal. Not anymore. And it never would be again.

* * *

**There it is. Abbie is officially pregnant, and she also knows that Hayden is, as well. Things just aren't going well for Abbie, and I'm afraid they are only going to get worse from here. Now, we all know what happens to Vivien in the end, but perhaps things for Abbie will end just a little bit differently. We shall see.**  
  
**Sometimes I worry that I'm making Abbie too one-dimensional and not relatable or realistic. And if she does come off that way to anybody, do _not_ be afraid to let me know; criticism is welcome, I just ask that you make it constructive so I know what I need to improve.**


	18. Preparations

_'How long had it been? Twenty minutes? Twenty hours? Twenty days? In a windowless room without a clock, time felt like a luxury I couldn't afford. I reminded myself any moment now my time could end. And all the minutes I extracted with my lies, with the show of affections and empathy, could slip from my grasp like sand through my fingers.  
  
        _Click. Click. Click. _The fluorescent lights flickered on. Adrenaline coursed through my body. My muscles tensed. My heart pounded through my chest.  
  
        His appearance was always unexpected. I came to believe he was always watching me, waiting to catch me off guard. But this time, there was more than one coming down the basement steps. Another woman, her hands tied behind her back, staggered in front of him. She stumbled down the stairs, landing hard on the tile floor. And she looked up at me. And it was as if I was looking in a mirror and saw my own despair.  
  
        That's when he turned to me and said, "Say hi to our new toy."'_  
  
        Every letter typed out in bold print jumped out at me from its designated white background. Each word taken in resonated within me and tugged at my heart. The way the story was told, how beautifully it was written, I could feel everything that Lana felt during those horrid events that plagued her past. So much emotion had been poured into every single character and trickled into every miniscule grain that made up each page. She had so effortlessly spilled her heart and soul and contained them within the novelization of her torture.  
  
        Reading had always provided me with a means of escape. It used to be something I made time for at least once a day. Now I was lucky if I even picked up a book once a week. All of mine were just collecting dust on my shelves. Things had been a little too hectic lately for me to just be able to sit down, relax, and allow my mind to wander into a fictional realm created by someone else. But, in the most horrible and morbid way, that was exactly what _'Maniac'_ allowed me to do. Except the realm portrayed in this book was not fiction; it was very real, even if not all of the events within the story lined up with what actually happened. Despite the repulsive content, the atrocities that were being recounted, it sucked me in and helped me forget, if only for a little while, everything else going on around me.  
  
        That was what I really needed. Just some time to think about something else, or I was going to drive myself insane. The primary focus of my thoughts for the past couple of weeks had been my fetal child. It was hard for me not to dwell on my pregnancy. I knew all the stress it was causing me could not be good for the baby, but it wasn't something I could just brush to the back of my mind; it was a pressing issue that was only going to continue to grow for another eight or nine months. Everything around me, everything I saw or did, just served to remind me that I was a teenage mother.  
  
        When I looked at my clothes, it made me think of how I would need to buy new ones to accommodate my gradually inflating stomach. They fit me now, but it wouldn't be too long before they became too tight, before I would have to set them at the back of my closet and wait to see if I would ever be able to fit in them again. Hanging around the house had become more awkward on my side because my mother was always around, and her already budding stomach was almost visible from underneath her shirt. It reminded me that we would be giving birth only a month or so apart. Going to work was a constant battle between my will of strength and my body's urge to purge itself whenever the faintest scent of coffee hung in the air. Sometimes my mind won, sometimes my body won; it depended on which one was more determined that day.  
  
        I couldn't get away from it. That distress, that worry and anxiety, was always at the forefront of my mind. Which was why I was morbidly thankful that Lana's book had fallen into my hands. The content was highly disturbing, and I honestly did feel bad for all that Lana had been forced to suffer through, but it did prove to be a brief escape from my impending motherhood.  
  
        My concentration was broken when Joan Jett's voice blared from my phone's speakers. After trying to ignore the disruption for a couple of seconds, I huffed and turned my attention to where my phone was plugged in next to my bed, the screen lit up and displaying Eva's contact information. _Crimson and Clover_ continued to play while I debated on whether or not to answer it or let it go to voicemail so I could resume my reading without interruption.  
  
        Finally I sighed and set the book aside. It wouldn't be right for me to just ignore her call. Especially not after how helpful and supportive she had been towards me these past couple of weeks. She was always ready to cover me every time the aroma became too much for me and my shift had to be interrupted for a trip to the bathroom. It was one of the things that relieved my doubt of whether or not I should have told her about my condition.  
  
        Originally I wasn't going to tell anyone outside of the family, and even those select few in the family had been temporarily narrowed down to just Lana and Marion. But Eva had been so concerned when she found me kneeling in front of the toilet again. It was before my shift had even officially started. I had just come in after a doctor's appointment, set up by Lana immediately following her seeing the result of all three tests, where I had been informed I was roughly three weeks along at that time -- I was now around four to five weeks -- according to the results of a blood test. That knowledge confirmed for me what I had suspected: I was pregnant with my rapist's baby. Eva had kept a close eye on me when she thought I wasn't looking, apparently having sensed that something was wrong, and followed after me when I'd rushed to the bathroom after a good half hour of trying to suppress the urge to get sick.  
  
        Even if I would have assured her a thousand times that everything was fine, she still would have worried over me because she would have known that was a lie, and it didn't feel right to keep her in that state. So I told her that I was pregnant. I spared her the gruesome details of the truth and just fibbed that it happened with the neighbor's boy. Her reaction was not damning or judgement, like I had thought it would be considering how foolish I was for having gotten myself in the situation, but it was caring and supportive. The first thing she said in response, after a second's pause as she let the information sink in, was that I could count on her to help whenever I needed it.  
  
        Then, when she proceeded to learn of the added reason as to why I was so dependent on the bathroom, she offered to cover any shift necessary for me to feel better. It was something I found myself considering a couple of times since she offered, but I couldn't bring myself to just take advantage of her like that. Plus I really needed the money now since I was going to have a child to support.  
  
        Unplugging the phone from its charger, I slid my finger across the screen and lifted the device up to my ear. "Hey, Eva," I greeted. With a light sigh, I readjusted my position on my bed so my back was against the metal frame, my legs crossed at the ankles.  
  
         _"Hi, Abbie,"_ she returned, her voice cheery like usual. _"Jeanine just got ahold of me; our checks our in for the week."_ Another voice faintly came over the other side of the line, Eva responding to it briefly before sighing heavily. _"Sorry about that. Anyway, I just thought I'd call to let you know . . . and use it as an excuse to check up on you, see how you're doing."_ Her upbeat words garnered a hefty eye roll and an amused chuckle from me.  _"So, that being said: how are you doing, love?"_  
  
        That was a loaded question. And, now that I had to think about it, I wasn't sure of the answer. So much had been going on recently, and my stress levels had skyrocketed to new heights I hadn't even known existed, but all things considered, I guess I was fine. Or at least as fine as I could be in my situation.  
  
        So I just shrugged a shoulder in response, even though she obviously couldn't see the movement over the phone. "Oh, you know, fine. Considering," I added as an afterthought, the word coming out in an exhale. She didn't know what all the 'considering' entailed, but she did know one of the main components.  
  
 _"I guess that's good then. How's your stomach?"_  
  
        "Well, I haven't thrown up today, if that's what you're asking. I've been avoiding going downstairs this morning until I'm sure it doesn't smell like coffee." My stomach rolled slightly at the mere thought of the aroma; I groaned quietly and grimaced. "This aversion crap is gonna be the death of me. It's so damn inconvenient, not to mention dangerous; I'm more liable to kill someone without coffee in my system."  
  
        I was already feeling the effects of my newly acquired distaste for my favorite caffeine provider. It was easier to irritate me. Headaches had been coming on at least once a day. Sometimes it was harder for me to concentrate on certain tasks. That, however, I blamed more on how chaotic my thoughts had been lately due to current events. Occasionally I would grab a soda as a substitute for my caffeine intake, but it just wasn't the same.  
  
        Eva tittered at my melodramatics. _"Look on the bright side. If you do end up killing someone, the jury would probably be a little more lenient with you, given your situation."_  
  
        "We can only hope," I chuckled before sighing once more; that was something I found myself doing almost too often here lately. "Well, I suppose I should go pick up my check so I can cash it before those guys get here."  
  
        While I had been preoccupied with my impending motherhood, Mom had been busy trying to find another house in town for us to live in. She and Violet had looked at this one place while I had been at work, but apparently it hadn't been too impressive, so the search was still in progress. Only one prospective buyer had come by the house to check it out and see if they were willing to take it off our hands. She hadn't stayed for the whole tour because she had been so creeped out by the property. So Mom had gotten in touch with Marcy, and the realtor had arranged for a couple of men -- there was a term she used to title their profession, but I couldn't remember what it was -- to come fix the place up to help with the house's 'image problem.'  
  
        Personally, I thought it was a lost cause. Anyone from here knew the house and its history. Which was probably why it had gotten egged a couple of nights ago by a pair of kids. The new gazebo in our yard, swifty constructed by Ben immediately after Hayden left for some reason he wouldn't let anyone in on, wasn't even enough to entice someone into purchasing the place. Marcy's guys were supposed to decorate the house for Halloween to make it more presentable, the work starting today, but I didn't have much faith in them or the plan; it had enough of a creepy reputation that any extra creep-factor would only prove to scare away more prospective buyers than it already did.  
  
        Eva and I exchanged a few words before saying our goodbyes and ending the call. With yet another sigh, I swung my legs over the side of my mattress and stood up, smoothing out my skirt to make sure it wasn't bunched up in the back. It was one I'd had since I was fourteen, and as I had both grown and filled out a bit more since then, it didn't quite fit as well as it used to; it still fit, but it tended to ride up a bit more often, making me question why I still even had it. Or at least why I wore still bothered to wear it. I asked myself that again as I briefly studied my reflection in the mirror, my eyes roaming over the outfit I had thrown together, knowing that I would only be able to wear it for so long before I wouldn't fit into it at all.  
  
        The skirt itself was an eighties-style 'rara' skirt that stopped a little above my knees, complete with a brown leather belt that tied at the front like a corset, curved around the waist, and three flounced layers of sheer black material that was covered in small pink and purple flowers. An off-white trapeze top with thin strap covered my torso; the sides were longer than the front and back, and therefore hung down, and a front tie detail near the neckline dropped down into a tassel as long as the sides. Over that was an unbuttoned denim jacket that silhouetted what curves I did have from my waist to the top of my hips. It was all completed with a pair of combat boots, made of brown leather, whose tops folded down to reveal a floral pattern printed on the inside material.  
  
        It was the perfect autumn outfit, and I thought I looked decent in it. And now that I knew my days were numbered until I would no longer be able to wear it, I was a little relieved I hadn't gotten rid of the skirt. Especially since looking in the mirror reminded me how cute I looked in it. I wasn't vain, but even I had to admit that the clothes suited me.  
  
        Grabbing my keys from my desk, I stuffed them in my jacket pocket along with my phone and opened my door, stepping out into the hallway. When I did, I was surprised to see him there, and by the look on his face, he hadn't been expecting to see me there either. We stared at each other for a few seconds in stunned silence.  
  
        Something settled in the pit of my stomach. Whatever it was made me even more uncomfortable than I already was. But it also made me realize something important. Or at least reconsider an important situation I had already thought about at length.  
  
        When I had first thought I was pregnant, before I had taken the home test bought at the pharmacy, I had thought Tate was the father. He was the first that came to mind. Then I got to thinking and realized that my nighttime visitor, who I had scathingly nicknamed 'Rubber Man' since his latex suit was his signature discerning feature, was a much more likely candidate for fatherhood considering the time frame. Which was only proven further by the doctor's determination that stemmed from the results of blood test. I had accepted that Rubber Man had gotten me pregnant during the initial encounter because it was what I had suspected myself.  
  
        But now, as Tate and I stood in the awkward staring contest, I felt that my initial thought concerning the identity of the father had been correct. Tate was the father. I didn't know how that would even be possible, but somehow, I just knew it was him; the doctor must have misread the results or something caused the test to produce inaccurate results.  
  
        My hand floated up to rest on my abdomen, an involuntary movement that occurred whenever I thought about the life growing inside, but I covered up the movement by tugging at my jacket.  
  
        Tate was the first one to break the silence between us. "Hey."  
  
        My eyes shot to the familiar darkness of his. The tension surrounding us was palpable, thick, and near suffocating. His voice did nothing to ease it. I still wanted to escape the encounter. I wanted to turn around and lock myself away in my room until he was gone. But I had to be mature about this, and I knew we had to talk. It just wasn't something I was ready to do right at this moment.  
  
        ". . . Hey," I returned.  
  
        We lapsed into awkward silence once more. The only sound between us was our breathing and the slight creaking of the floorboards as they compensated for our combined weight as we both shifted uncomfortably. I bit my lips and eyed the staircase with interest. It was right there. All I would have to do is say I had somewhere to be, which wasn't a lie, and continue on my way. It would be that easy to escape. But, at the same time, it was much more complicated than that.  
  
        He cleared his throat. "Heading out?"  
  
        When I moved my eyes back to him, a little surprised and confused at the question, he gestured down to my pocket. I glanced down and noticed that my keys had slipped out a little. Probably when I'd tugged on my jacket to hide my pregnant stomach from his eyes. I slid them back inside so they didn't fall.  
  
        "Oh, uh, yeah -- errands," I finished lamely.  
  
        He nodded his head. "Right, cool." Looking down, and therefore removing his piercing gaze from me, he shoved one hand into his jeans pockets; the other raked through the mess of matte blonde curls atop his head. "You, uh -- you look nice," he complimented sheepishly. The hand in his hair moved around to rub the back of his neck.  
  
        "Oh, uh," I stammered, mentally kicking myself for not speaking in complete, coherent sentences, "Thank you."  
  
        Another silence settled over us. My face burned with the heat stemming from the awkwardness. It had been a surprise to see him today. Ever since our altercation, I had been very careful to avoid him, which had actually been fairly easy to do despite his sessions. So far I had gone a little less than a month without even catching the faintest glimpse of him. Which ha been a good thing -- it had given me time to think about everything.  
  
        We had to talk. There was no doubt about that. But I didn't know what to say, or even how to start the conversation. How did you tell the boy, who was still practically a stranger with how little you knew about him, you used that you were now expecting? There was no way to ease into that. And because the last major talk we had did not end well, I was admittedly a little afraid to tell him; this news was big, and not everyone was ready to hear it, especially at our age -- how would he react?  
  
        "Well, I should really, uh, be going now, so . . ."  
  
        Tate cleared his throat and nodded. "Right, right. Uh, me too. I have a -- a session with Dr. Harmon," he replied. He rubbed the back of his neck again as he stumbled over his words.  
  
        I gave him a small, tight-lipped smile and a slight nod of the head before heading down the staircase. As I neared the bottom I spotted Mom seeing someone out the front door. It was the new security guard we had gotten as extra protection since our faulty alarm system was from the Reagan era. Plus we decided that we would just feel safer if there was someone qualified to come to our aid if something like that attempted reenactment ever happened again.  
  
        She said a final goodbye before softly shutting the door just as I stepped off the last stair. The floorboard creaked under my weight, alerting her to my presence, and she turned to face me. "There you are, Abbie. I need you to do me a favor."  
  
        My brow creased. "Uh, all right. What is it?" I asked.  
  
        "Violet needs out of the house for a little bit and to spend time with her sister. Do you think you could please take her out today and do something with her? Go see a movie or something?"  
  
        I frowned at the random request. It wasn't as though I were opposed to spending time with my sister. That would actually be nice considering how much we hadn't so much as seen each other recently. But I wasn't sure if Violet would even entertain the idea of spending time with me today. She had been pretty upset with me for one reason or another the last I heard.  
  
        When I went to voice my thoughts, Mom must have caught on to what I was thinking, for she just gave me a look only a mother could master. The one look that no child could disobey. Even as I sighed inwardly upon realizing she truly wanted me to do this, I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever master that particular look as well as she had.  
  
        "Yeah, okay, I can do that," I agreed in resignation. "I'm heading out anyway to collect my paycheck, so we can just do something once I cash it."  
  
        Mom smiled. "Thanks, honey. Vi will really appreciate this," she insisted.  
  
        I wasn't so sure she would. She might not even want anything to do with me right now. But I could see how much Mom wanted me to do this, so I didn't say anything; instead I plastered a smile on my face as she patted my arm before walking around me and starting up the stairs. The fake smile dropped the moment she was out of my line of sight. I sighed and made my way into the kitchen where Violet was seated at the island in the rare event of emerging from the safety of her room to take care of herself.  
  
        As I had predicted, Violet was not easy to convince. It was uncommon for her to even come out of her bedroom, let alone actually leave the house for anything other than school, which she was literally forced to attend. I was not surprised that she didn't immediately jump on the idea of us doing something together. However, that didn't mean her trying to get out of spending any time with me did not hurt; I definitely felt the sting of rejection the more she declined, each more brusque than the last.  
  
        Then, just as I was about to give up and accept that my own sister couldn't even bare to be alone with me for any extended period of time, she finally agreed. As happy as I wanted to be with that, I knew she wasn't doing it because she genuinely wanted to; she was doing it to get Mom and I off her back. It wasn't what I would have hoped for, but I realized it was the best I was going to get, and I supposed it was better than nothing. So I just accepted it for what it was.  
  
        Like I fully expected, Violet chose not to speak in the car, actively favoring her music over my company. As much as that stung, I did not try to force her into any sort of interaction; I knew from experience that doing so would have the opposite effect and would cause her to close herself off even more than she already was. Any interaction would have to be on her terms if I didn't want to drive her further away.  
  
        But Mom did want us to do something together while we were out, and I wanted it to be an activity that she would enjoy. So after I collected my check and stopped off at the bank to cash it, I grabbed her attention and asked, "What do you wanna do?"  
  
        The only response she gave was a shrug of her shoulders.  
  
        "Well . . . do you wanna see a movie? You can pick which one."  
  
        A negative shake of the head.  
  
        "Is there a book you've been wanting? We can go by the bookshop and I can pick it up for you."  
  
        Same response.  
  
        "I know you just had a snack, but if you're hungry, we could go eat someplace. Your choice of restaurant."  
  
        "I'm not hungry."  
  
        "How about a music place? You can get Ramones, The Smiths -- whatever you want."  
  
        "I have all the albums I need."  
  
        "We could -- we could go bowling!"  
  
        "I hate bowling."  
  
        Frustration took hold of me, and I sighed heavily. Of course she did. "Fine. We'll just go home then," I declared. Lips pursed, I took the proper cautions and switched lanes, shifting into the one that would take us home.  
  
        With another careless shrug, she placed her earbuds back in her ears. "Sounds good to me," she muttered. She turned her music back on, blaringly loud to where even I could hear it, and turned her head to look out her window.  
  
        Even I was silent for the remainder of the ride. The only sounds I made were a couple sighs here and there and the drumming of my thumbs against the leather of my steering wheel at red lights. As hurt and frustrated as I was, I was also a little angry; I had extended an olive branch, even though Mom had gently pushed me into doing it, and she had deliberately snapped it in half. I didn't even know  _why_  she was so upset with me, and I didn't bother asking because I knew my sister, and I knew she wouldn't tell me.  
  
        It was strange how quickly our relationship had deteriorated over the short time that we had been in California. We had only been there a month, going on two, and we had gone from being best friends to it almost being exaggeration if we referred to ourselves as mere acquaintances. Violet and I were nothing more than strangers at this point. She had changed drastically ever since we had moved into the house. And so had I; the rift that had wedged itself between us was on me, too. I knew I had changed. But how could one remain the same exact person they always were when they were put through all the shit that I had been forced to experience within the past eight months?  
  
        So maybe it was me that had driven my sister away. Maybe it fell more on me than it did in her. If that was the case, I was just going to have to accept it and move on, and hope that perhaps one day we could reconnect. But that was going to have to be her decision. I was done trying to mend the shattered pieces of our broken family. I was done holding on to that glimmer of false hope that maybe someday, somehow, things would just once again fall back into place. For the majority of the year, it had fallen on me to clean up the mess left behind by everyone else's problems, and I'd had to be extra careful not to leave any of my own problems behind as well. I had been sixteen when it had started, and while other girls were out having fun with their friends, I had been stuck as the only adult in my household, the only responsible being in my immediate family.  
  
        Violet's cold demeanor towards me had really let me see what I hadn't allowed myself to realize. There was nothing to hold onto anymore. Every last shred of hope had been stomped on and squashed like an ant. Nothing was going to save this family. We didn't even deserve to call ourselves that anymore. We were no longer a family, and we never would be again.  
  
        The realization didn't faze me as much as it probably should have. It was something I had known for a while, and now that it had been confirmed within my conscious mind, it was just a fact that I had already accepted before I had even been aware of it.  
  
        A frown was still prominent on face when I stepped into the foyer, eyeing Violet as her petite frame bounded up the stairs with the clear intent of escaping my company. I sighed through my nose and dragged my feet across the hardwood flooring. Just as I was about to enter the kitchen, planning on pouring myself some iced tea in hopes the caffeine would help stave off the headache I felt coming on, Mom stepped out right in my path, nearly running into me due to being a little more preoccupied with the pumpkin cradled in her arms. Luckily I was able to move out of the way before we collided.  
  
        "Oops, watch out," Mom laughed as she came to a wobbly stop, adjusting her grip on the pumpkin as I reached forward to steady her so she didn't completely lose her balance. "Sorry, honey, I wasn't looking where I was going."  
  
        The unexpectedness of the situation made me laugh a little with her, out of surprise. "I can see that. What's with the pumpkin?" I asked, releasing her arm to cross mine over my chest. How many times was I going to be caught off guard today?  
  
        "Marcy brought some over not long after you left. She thinks they'll help give the house a better image."  
  
        "The only thing that would give this place a better image is a bulldozer," I countered dryly, not seeing how a couple of Halloween fruits were going to help draw in prospective buyers. "And I'm assuming there's something carved on the front, right? So come on, let's see it!"  
  
        Mom grinned at my only slightly faked enthusiasm. She carefully adjusted her grip to turn the pumpkin around in her arms. It had been turned into a typical jack-o'-lantern with the semi-spooky face that really only affected small children.  
  
        "Moira did it," she informed me. "Isn't it nice?"  
  
        "Lovely," I agreed, biting down on my bottom lip for a second before reaching my arms out towards her. "Here, I'll go set it out on the porch." She started to protest, saying that she was already heading out to do so, but I shook my head. "I got it, Mom, just sit down for a bit."  
  
        Even though setting a pumpkin out on the porch was not especially strenuous activity, I could tell that whatever she had been doing while Violet and I were out had tired her to some extent. And her doctor had told her to avoid any stressful situations as they could potentially harm the baby. Maybe I was a bit paranoid, but after watching her suffer through one miscarriage, I wanted to do everything in my power to ensure that she didn't have to suffer through another one.  
  
         And I also might have been feeling a little guilty for not having done anything with Violet like Mom wanted. Granted, Violet had made it extremely difficult to spend any time with her, but I had been the one to give up and bring her back home. Just because I was done picking up the mess and holding onto a false hope didn't mean I wanted to intentionally shy away from the few responsibilities I still felt that I had.  
  
        Leaving no room for argument, I lifted the pumpkin from my mother's arms and into my own, holding it carefully so I didn't drop it. Mom looked at me for a second longer before sighing and shaking her head, flashing me an exasperated and grateful smile before she thanked me and headed back towards the kitchen. She muttered something about me being as stubborn as both her mother and Lana combined, which made me smirk in victory as those were two women I would always love and adore, all the way up to my last breath taken in my last moment on Earth.  
  
        I grunted as I placed the pumpkin against a pillar, facing it towards the street. It would actually look pretty neat tomorrow night with the candle inside. I highly doubted it would help draw in prospective buyers, but it did remind me of Halloween at Grandma Mary's. Violet and I would get dressed in our costumes, and then Mom and Ben would take us over early in the evening, before any trick-or-treaters were out yet. Then we would help Grandma remove the guts from the pumpkins and roast the seeds in the oven and carve the hollow fruits into spooky jack-o'-lanterns. The roasted seeds would always be ready by the time we returned with our bags full of candy and other little treats.  
  
        Remembering how things used to be was always bittersweet for me. The memories made me smile, and I liked thinking back on them, but they made me miss how things were before everything went to hell with my family.  
  
        My attention was abruptly stolen and redirected towards the street. I frowned at the two men who were standing on the walk, both of their backs turned to me. Their voices carried to me. How did I miss them earlier?  
  
        "Ugh! The roses have whitefly," one of them complained, gesturing towards the white roseswe had lining the pathway up to the house. "Jesus, what an eyesore."  
  
        "Uh, excuse me . . . ?"  
  
        They turned at my voice, and I was able to get a fairly good look at them. Both of them appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties. They were fairly tall, probably closer to six foot as they both towered over my average height of five-foot-six, and they were both in decent shape, like they took the time to keep themselves fit.  
  
        The slightly taller one had light brown hair that was perfectly coiffed and blue eyes. He had on a green and black tracksuit jacket over a plain white shirt. It only served to soldify my observation that they kept in shape. His friend had dark brown hair that was slightly messy, but in a way that was clearly intentional, and a bit of scruffy facial hair. A pair of sunglasses hid his eyes. A pink cardigan draped over the back and shoulders of his black and white, plaid, button-down shirt.  
  
        "Hi," they spoke in unison.  
  
        "Hello . . ."  
  
        The man with the cardigan smiled at my confusion and stepped forwards. He smoothly removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes the color of undiluted coffee. "Love the house, so much potential," he complimented. His friend gazed up and down the exterior before smiling slightly and nodding in agreement.  
  
        I blinked. "Thanks, I guess. If you say so." Biting my lips, I glanced around for a second, wondering what they were doing here. Then I remembered that those guys were supposed to be coming today. "Oh! Are you the guys Marcy sent? The ones that are supposed to help fix up the place?" I asked.  
  
        Holding out his hand, the man that spoke before introduced, "I'm Chad Warwick. This is my ball and chain, Patrick."  
  
        "Nice to meet you," I commented, shaking his hand before shaking Patrick's, a polite smile fixed on my face. "Come on inside then, I'll let my mother know you're here."  
  
        It didn't take long before everyone was acquainted. Even Violet briefly came down and met them, but after she got her glass of lemonade, she retreated back to isolation. Ben saw Tate out, the former of whom waved goodbye when he passed, and joined us in the kitchen where we were preparing everything. Chad and Patrick wanted to decorate with more jack-o'-lanterns and bats cut from construction paper. At least for today; tomorrow we would work on the more complex decorations and activities.  
  
        It was exceedingly uncomfortable for me to be in the same room as Ben. While I had disliked being in close quarters with him since Boston, it had only gotten worse after I had told him that I hated him. That was something I deeply regretted. I may have been furious with Ben, and I may not have wanted anything to do with him after he had repeatedly lied to us, but I definitely did not hate him. I didn't particularly like him, but he was still my father, and I did love him.  
  
        Things between us now were worse than they had ever been. And I did take partial responsibility for that. I had said something horrible to him, and while I wanted to take it back and apologize to him, I didn't know how. It wasn't something I knew how to go about doing, so I just let it hang in the air.  
  
        Mom had picked up on the tension between us shortly after I had said it. She questioned me about it, but I wrote it off as it being the same thing that had been wrong before we even moved out here. I wasn't sure if she had asked Ben or just took my word for it. Either way, I hadn't heard anything about it since, and I was left to wallow in my uncomfortable guilt whenever I saw him.  
  
       Chad and Patrick seemed to be picking up on it as well. They would periodically glance between us before discretely exchanging knowing looks with each other or shooting one in my direction if they caught me noticing. I tried to ignore the creeping suspicion that there was something off about them, but the longer I was in their company, the more I felt that something just wasn't right. It was an uneasy feeling to have piled on to every other feeling that was coiled into a ball and settled permanently in the pit of my stomach.  
  
        "This is actually kind of fun," Ben remarked in delighted surprise as he carved into a pumpkin. "I never got to do this as a kid."  
  
        Chad glanced up curiously. "Why not?"  
  
        A tense silence followed the harmless inquiry. Ben's expression changed from delighted to uncomfortable. He focused intently on his carving. Biting down on my lip, I continued outlining the bats, preparing them one at a time to be cut out by Mom. As a rule, we generally avoided speaking about Ben's past. Even Violet and I didn't know too much about it. Just that it wasn't the best; he was a troubled child apparently.  
  
        Deliberately changing the subject, Mom forced a smile on her face and turned to Chad and Patrick. "So this is what you guys do for a living." They both nodded in return, removing the attention from Ben, who visibly relaxed as the tension in the room let up a little. "That is amazing to me. And wonderful, you know. I think style is so important," she commented.  
  
       "It's everything," Chad agreed forcefully before sighing happily. "It's so great that I get to help you guys have the best Halloween ever."  
  
        I raised a brow. "Aren't you a little old to be this into Halloween?" I asked, earning a dull elbow in the ribs from Mom. She shot me a reprimanding look.  
  
        Chad leveled me with an amused gaze. "Halloween is the one day the dead can walk freely among the living. It's liberating, and we would all do well to respect it." He smirked at the frown his words provoked from me, taking a sip of the wine contained within his glass. "I love Halloween. So does Patrick, because the bars are just awash in twinks with six packs in revealing outfits." His amused glance turned scathing as he darted his eyes over to his partner, whose jaw had clenched slightly. "Isn't that right, Pat? The Abby, The O Bar, Rage -- that's where he was last year instead of helping me with trick-or-treaters," he said.  
  
        "Have another drink, dear," Patrick scoffed before leaning in to the rest of us. "Crafting brings out his inner George and Martha."  
  
        Mom and I exchanged glances of our own. Clearly there was trouble in paradise. There were very few situations that were as awkward as being caught between a fighting couple. That was something I knew all too well. It was surprisingly worse when it wasn't family. I'd had plenty of practice with Mom and Ben, but I'd had a side to stick up for and defend. With Chad and Patrick, two men who were virtually strangers, there was no side for me to support. Even silently taking a  would make me feel a little more comfortable witnessing their spat.  
  
        Searching for something to say, something that would change the subject and diffuse some of the tension, Mom opened her mouth for a second before managing, "So, in addition to Halloween night and making everything look inviting, which I get, do you guys have any other suggestions for what we might do to the house to make it sell faster?"  
  
        "Actually, yes," Chad said nonchalantly, as though the previous interaction didn't even happen, while he took another sip of his wine. "That gazebo's got to go." His face briefly pinched in distaste. "The lattice is wrong."  
  
        "I agree," Patrick concurred.  
  
        We all frowned. The gazebo had just been put up a couple of weeks ago. It would be silly to take it down after such a short amount of time. Even though I was still confused as to why Ben had suddenly decided we needed one, I thought it was a decent addition to the house. It would be pretty if some fairy lights were strung around the roof and some pillows and blankets were thrown in there; like a romantic scene from a movie.  
  
        Ben's frown seemed more troubled at the idea of removing the gazebo. I eyed him from over my glass of iced tea. Something about his reaction rubbed me the wrong way.  
  
        "Oh no, we just put that in," Mom protested.  
  
        Coming around to lean against the counter, still cradling his glass of wine in his hand, Chad questioned, "Did you put that gazebo in yourself, Ben?"  
  
        Ben glared slightly at him. "Yes."  
  
        Chad sighed in disappointment. "Well, let's get through tomorrow night, and then we can tear it down and put in an organic cutting garden."  
  
        By this point a frown had set permanently on my face. There was just something wrong with the situation that I couldn't name. Chad and Patrick seemed to know something that either we didn't or that they would have no way of knowing. Their eyes had these certain glints, and their voices held a specific tone; both of which suggested they knew more than they should have.  
  
        I was unsure if I was the only one who suspected anything, but it was clear Ben was not happy at the moment. He had returned his attention back to the pumpkin and was carving into it once again, this time with a little more force than necessary. It only took a few seconds before he shouted out in pain and dropped the knife. "Ow! Shit!"  
  
        I instinctively moved closer to see if he was all right. He cursed again and held up his hand. Blood was dripping from it. Nausea draped over me at the sight, and I forced myself to look away. It never bothered me when it was my  blood, but when it was someone else's, I couldn't stomach it.  
  
        Mom lifted a hand over her mouth and gasped, "Oh my God!" She grabbed a cloth from the counter and went to his side.  
  
        Patrick beat her to it and pushed past her. "Let me see," he demanded, gently gripping Ben's hand and examining the cut.  
  
        "I think I'm gonna need stitches," Ben groaned.  
  
        "No. No, it's okay," Patrick assured, taking the cloth from Mom and using it to apply pressure to his hand. "I can fix this up."  
  
        Obviously not too worried, and still a little sour over whatever was going on in their life together, Chad mentioned sassily, "Pat's an EMT."  
  
        Mom's frown deepened in confusion. "Oh, I thought you were a fluffer," she told Patrick.  
  
        Chad chuckled dryly. "You're hilarious, Vivien. And I love the hair color. I can barely see any root," he added.  
  
        "It's her natural color," I defended, a little put out at the obvious dig at her age.  
  
        He merely tilted his glass to me before taking another sip. My eyes narrowed and scrutinized him. Everything about him and his partner bugged me. It wasn't the sass, because that was something I could fully appreciate, but it as something I couldn't see. There was a piece missing from the puzzle that I desperately needed in order to view the whole picture. Right now it just lay in fragments. The parts were there, but until I recovered what was missing, I was left looking at an incomplete picture that just did not make sense.  
  
        Ignoring the exchange, Patrick asked, "Where's your first-aid kit?"  
  
        "Upstairs."  
  
        Patrick and Ben disappeared up the stairs to care for his wound. The rest of us cleaned up what we could of the kitchen and moved into the dining room to make use of the table's surface. We spread out the equipment and materials necessary for the decorations. While we prepared, Chad talked about how extravagant he made his Halloween celebrations. Last year he had a famous French figures theme, complete with the faces of Marie Antoinette and Joan of Arc -- along with a few others like Moliere -- carved into pumpkins. He had his heart set on an apple bobbing station filled with Gala apples -- apparently Golden Delicious were too dull -- and gourds spray painted to look like ghosts that would hang on the tree.  
  
        Mom was quick to agree with that idea and sent me to find this old bobbing bucket we had along with a box of worn costumes we had never taken he time to sort through. At first I was eager to go look for them, thinking that getting out of the same room as Chad would help settle my nerves somewhat, but my tune changed when she informed me Ben had put them away somewhere in the basement.  
  
        Of course they would be in the basement. They just  _had_  to be in the one area of the house that I wanted to avoid.  
  
        As I reluctantly went to do what was asked of me, Chad glanced up like he knew the basement frightened me and looked after me with a smirk. A grimace painted itself on my face as I stood at the top of the stairs, peering uncertainly down into the dark cellar. In no way did I want to go down there. Basements had always creeped me out, but after all that I'd learned about and experienced in this one, the mere thought or mention of it was enough to make me uneasy.  
  
        With a deep breath, I forced myself to descend the stairs, gliding my hands along the wall and railing until I had reached level ground. Light was spilling in from the small window positioned just above the dirt on the surface as well as the couple on the door. It was enough to illuminate the main area, but the shadows lingered just past that, the further sections bathed in the natural darkness.  
  
        My eyes scoured the main area in the hopes that what I was looking for would be close to the steps. And as disappointed as I was that I didn't see anything, I was not too suprised. Luck had fled my side months ago and left me to my own devices. I slowly made my way further into the space, holding my arms as I was greeted with the familiar sensation of being watched, my skin prickling and my hair standing up on end. It was a feeling I had nearly become accustomed to over the short time we had lived in the house. But it still set me on edge.  
  
        The adjacent area had a single light that could be turned on. It was a bulb on a string that swung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. The only way to turn it on was to pull the string. Which meant I had to go all he way over to it before I would even see anything. Fortunately the daylight provided a little bit of illumination that made it somewhat easier to ensure I wouldn't trip over something on the way, but that didn't do much to make me feel any better about being down there as the sinister feeling the basement harbored only seemed to intensify in that room. It felt like something was just lurking in the far corner, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce out of the shadows.  
  
        I cautiously shuffled towards the light, reaching my hand out in search of the string, planning on yanking it the second I found it. My eyes squinted to make out the shapes of stacked boxes against the far wall, hidden just past the limit of the natural light's reach. Small noises were coming from all around, causing my heart to pick up pace and stop at the same time, but I forced myself forward by telling myself it was nothing; it was just the house settling or rodents scampering along the concrete and chewing on miscellaneous items. Even I wasn't sure I believed that, but it worked to push me onward until my fingers brushed the string, which I then swiftly grabbed and tugged.  
  
        Dim light flooded the space. It wasn't much, but since it was currently sometime in the afternoon, it was enough to look through the boxes. I quickly buried myself with searching, moving some aside to reach the ones in the back, just wanting to find them and retreat upstairs as soon as possible. Noises continued to echo throughout the cellar that I desperately tried to write off as normal sounds for a house as old as this one. That was just a little hard to do when it felt as though eyes were sharply piercing my back and monitoring every move I made.  
  
        A sigh of relief escaped me in a heavy exhale when I spotted the word _'COSTUMES'_ scrawled in black marker across the side of a box that had been beaten down and worn by time. The crumpled and discolored cardboard looked like it would all apart if I tried to carry it all the way upstairs. I didn't want to risk having the bottom give out and the clothing dumping on the ground, so I resorted to carefully dragging the box out to the front and looking for the bobbing bucket. That way I could go ahead and put the costumes in there so I could just get rid of the weakened cardboard.  
  
        As I was bending over to move another box out of my way, something solid tapped against my shoulder, firm and deliberate. The sudden contact caused my body to jerk in fright as I let out an involuntary shriek and whirled around to face the culprit. He jumped back in surprise, his eyes just as wide as mine; my reaction had clearly startled him.  
  
        "God fucking damn it, Tate!" I wheezed, clutching at my heart as I could feel it trying to beat its way straight out of my chest. "You scared the shit out of me, you asshole!"  
  
        He held his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. "Whoa, sorry -- didn't mean to," he apologized.  
  
        Held in one of his hands was a red ball. I took note of it, but decided it wasn't important. What _was_ important was why he was in the basement. So I just glared at him slightly and demanded, "Why the hell are you down here anyway? I thought you left."  
  
        "I did. Well, I was going to, but I stopped to chat with Addie. You know, your neighbor?"  
  
        "I'm aware."  
  
        Tate nodded and fiddled with the ball. "Right. Anyway, she asked me to get this for her, said she left it in here." He held it up to show me. "But then you came down, and you looked like you could use some help, so . . ." he said, trailing off at the end.  
  
        I studied him for a moment, watching as he turned the ball around in his hands, almost like he was nervous about something. My eyes lowered to the object and narrowed slightly as I recognized it as the same red ball Addie had been playing with that one day when I had caught her down here. The same one that had rolled out of the shadows and hit my foot after she had gone out the door.  
  
        "Anyways, uh, sorry for scaring you," he muttered after I had failed to speak after a few seconds, probably taking my silence to mean I was angry or upset with him. "I'll just be going now."  
  
        "You don't have to," I blurted out, surprising even me as I hadn't thought before speaking; I cleared my throat. "I mean . . . I _could_ use some help finding this bobbing bucket -- if you don't mind?"  
  
        After a moment of either hesitation or consideration, he nodded and placed the ball down where he would recover it later, approaching the boxes and joining me in my search. While we worked, filling the silence with idle chit-chat that probably could have run a lot smoother, I couldn't help but watch him out of the corner of my eye. I realized that I had actually missed his company. We hadn't spent a lot of time together before, but I had enjoyed it when we did spend time together. He was so easy to talk to, and he always listened to what I had to say. I missed it -- how he could make me laugh, how understanding and sweet he was, the way his dimples popped whenever he smiled . . .  
  
        My attention was grabbed when Tate announced he had found it and dragged out the wooden bucket. It was then I realized, much to my chagrin, that I had been staring. I was saved from utter embarrassment only because he hadn't appeared to notice. Sighing through my nose, I rubbed at my cheeks to get them to cool down some before taking them north to rake through my hair, flashing him a close-lipped smile when he turned to face me.  
  
        "Uh, great -- wonderful," I said. "Thank you."  
  
        "You're welcome," he returned easily before suddenly growing visibly nervous, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets and lightly pressing his lips together. "Abbie . . . I, uh, actually wanted to ask you something." I raised my eyebrows in question, but chose to stay quiet and let him finish, gesturing for him to continue; he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm in the universal sign of an uncomfortable male. "Well, I was just thinking -- I'm free tomorrow afternoon, and if you don't have anything planned, I know this festival that'll be going on. Do you, you know -- do you wanna go . . . with me?"  
  
        As shocked as I was, I couldn't fight the grin that came to my face. Seeing him so anxious about asking me out was really endearing. It drew me to him even more than I admittedly already was. He was avoiding even looking at me now that he had asked. Like he was afraid I was going to turn him down. And maybe I should. Maybe I should say no and reject his offer -- reject _him_. Perhaps that would be the best thing for me at the moment.  
  
        But I couldn't do it.  
  
        "Like . . . on a date?" I asked for clarification, even though the answer to that would not change mine; he hesitated before nodding sheepishly, finally glancing up at me through his dark lashes, causing me to smile. "I'd love to."

* * *

**Things just weren't working the way I wanted them to for this chapter, and it was getting to the point where it was almost becoming unenjoyable for me to work on it, so I had to take time off and come back to it. Admittedly, it probably could have turned out better, and I realize the beginning is probably structured and put together so much better than the end; it did slack after a while. I was just anxious to get through this chapter because I am super excited to write the next one, which will be focused mainly on Tate and Abbie's date. After all the shit Abbie has gone through already, she deserves a nice night, doesn't she?**   
  
**Over 9,000 words -- it's my longest one yet! And I do apologize for the crappy chapter title; I could not for the life of me come up with a good one. If any of you have suggestions for better titles for this chapter, I would love to hear them!**


	19. Thriller

From a young age, my parents had instilled in us that everyone was different, and different was okay. The world would be such a boring place if everyone was the same. I had always agreed with that philosophy. In fact, sometimes I went out of my way to embrace it, especially when confronted with any negativity towards others that society didn't accept as 'normal.' Flaws were a part of us, and everybody had them. It wasn't a big deal.  
  
        But now, as I studied my reflection, every physical flaw of mine became a _big_ deal. My fingers danced lightly over my face as I thoroughly examined my facial features.  
  
         _Why am I so freaking pale? At least Violet has some color to her, I look like a damn vampire. Ugh, I look like I still have some baby fat around my face; look how much of my cheek I can pinch, that's too much skin. Has my nose always looked this bulbous? The bridge is too wide . . . and it's crooked! Oh my God, those bags under my eyes are so dark and puffy -- it looks like I haven't slept in a century. Good Lord, that space above my lips is way too defined. Wow . . . I have never realized how wide my mouth was before . . . It's flat, too . . .  
  
        _That last thought made that same mouth twist up into a disappointed scowl. I lifted my eyes away from my face, huffing when they locked onto my hair.  
  
         _It's so . . . stringy. There is no life to it. The color is dull. Brown hair -- how boring. I wish I had Mom or Violet's hair. Violet's hair is so pretty, so long and sleek . . . The curls come from Mom, but at least_ her _hair has vitality and luster; mine just looks dead. Oh God . . . look at those split ends . . .  
  
        _Annoyance quickly swelled up as I became more and more dissatisfied with my appearance. Now that I had started this self-loathing process, I had to continue to see what other flaws I could criticize myself for having. My analytical gaze traveled down to my torso.  
  
         _My chest is so small . . . I don't want huge ones, for fuck's sake, but they could be a little bigger! I feel like a twelve year old girl . . . And my stomach . . . Shit, have I gained weight? Am I already starting to show? No, that can't be right. I'm not far enough along, there's no way I can be showing already. It certainly looks a little fuller . . . and it's a little firmer . . . Damn it, this can't be happening.  
  
        _During my inspection, I had rolled up my shirt to just under my ribcage and splayed my hands on my stomach, noting the slight difference in my body shape. It was certainly a bit extended compared to how flat it had been before I had gone and messed up. My body had always been soft -- I wasn't exactly built for any athletics -- but now my abdomen was harder. The skin felt tighter and stretched underneath my probing fingertips. Pinching my lips together in distress, I turned to the side so I could judge how much of a difference it really was.  
  
        I eyed the slight bump with malice. How could I be showing this early? As far as I knew, women generally didn't start showing until around their tenth to twelfth week, and I wasn't any more than a few weeks along. Yet there it was. There was that small protrusion, rounded and hard, from my stomach that was encasing my unborn child. It wouldn't be long until someone noticed my middle was growing if I was already showing at only a couple of weeks.  
  
        That meant I would have to tell my parents sooner than expected. My original plan was to wait and summon up the courage to tell them only when it was becoming too difficult to hide my increasing weight and changing body. But that day was a lot closer than I had anticipated if I was going to continue developing at this rate.  
  
        With a sigh, I lowered the hem of my shirt and raised my eyes, stopping them at my breasts. Weren't those supposed to get bigger as well? I'd rather _they_ grown than my stomach. That was one size increase I could learn to enjoy, and one I could lie easier about; surely it wouldn't be too far-fetched to thinking I was just filling out on top.  
  
        Creaking from behind me tore me away from my thoughts. It sounded like a floorboard compensating for an added weight. Perhaps it was just part of the house settling, but after what I had experienced in there before, I was a little less inclined to believe that. I warily eyed the area I thought it had come from before cautiously walking in that direction as something banged and caused my bed to vibrate slightly in response. Just as I was leaning over to peak, a hand shot out from underneath and grasped my ankle in a firm grip, startling me so that I jerked back with a shout.  
  
        "Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!" the culprit chanted cheerfully as she crawled out from underneath my bed.  
  
        "Addie!" I gasped.  
  
        Heat rose to my cheeks as I thought about how long she must have been down there. She more than likely saw me critiquing my appearance. A small amount of panic rose within me as I realized she saw me observing my pregnant stomach. I was worried that she had seen the bump and somehow figured out I wasn't just gaining a few extra pounds.  
  
        Addie just smiled broadly and giggled silently at my reaction. "I want to be a pretty girl for Halloween."  
  
        Any embarrassment quickly faded as I stared at her in confusion. "Excuse me?" I frowned, taken aback by her sudden proclamation.  
  
        "Make me a pretty girl," she pleaded, "Like you, Abbie."  
  
        I regarded her for a moment. It was understandable why she didn't already consider herself a 'pretty girl.' By today's standards, if you didn't look like those anorexic models displayed in magazines, you might as well just walk around with a paper bag over your head. But I didn't agree with that. Everyone was beautiful in their own way. Just because someone didn't look like some airbrushed photograph didn't make them any less so.  
  
        "Addie, don't say that," I scolded, finding it sad how low her self-esteem obviously was, and I was sure that pretentious mother of hers didn't help any. "You're already a pretty girl."  
  
        I really did think Addie was pretty. She had those gunmetal blue eyes that seemed to see straight into your soul and that silky brown hair that I wished _I_ had instead of my stringy mess. Her Down Syndrome had no affect on her natural beauty. If anything, it only enhanced what was already there because it was _her_ , and nothing was more beautiful than someone as themselves.  
  
        She shook her head, the enthusiasm falling from her face. "No, I want to be a pretty girl like you, like the girls in the magazines," she insisted.  
  
        My lips pursed as I considered her request. If she wanted to feel prettier, I didn't see the harm in giving her a small makeover. Nothing too big, just enough to boost her self-esteem. So I agreed and moved my computer chair to sit in front of my mirror, leading the ecstatic woman over and sitting her down while I gathered the necessary supplies. She was practically bouncing in her seat when I returned to set everything up where I could easily reach it. Her renewed enthusiasm brought a smile to my face.  
  
        I applied a light layer of foundation to her face, making sure it was blended in properly before adding a hint of color with a faint pink blush. Next, following the routine that my mother had taught me when I had first begun truly wearing makeup, I picked out a dark grey-blue eyeshadow that I thought would compliment her eyes fairly well. Addie obediently kept her eyes shut as I swept the applicator across her top lids. Then I had her reopen them so I could examine my work thus far.  
  
        "I'm going to need you to look up," I instructed, grabbing the eyeliner, willing my hand to remain steady as I hesitantly touched the tip to her lower lids. "Sorry if I poke you in the eye, I'm not very good at this part."  
  
        That was probably an understatement. When the eyeliner pencil was in my hand, it never went right for me. Either I poked myself in the eye or I messed up andd marked over on my nose or some other spot that was not supposed to be marked. Perhaps that should have been enough of a hint for me not to attempt to apply it to another person. I was really hoping I wouldn't mess up on Addie, I'd feel horrible if I let it get away from me.  
  
        Once I had cautiously applied that to her lower lids and made her look back at me So I could assess it, I gladly put that aside and grabbed the mascara instead. I instructed her to look up again. She did so accordingly, allowing me to lightly swipe the wand down her lower lashes, darkening them. Then I had her look back at me and instructed her to blink periodically. When I finished, I pulled back and judged how it looked, smiling when I found I was pleased with how her eyes popped.  
  
        "I hope you'll like it," I commented lightly, searching for the final product amongst my scattered supplies, "because I think it looks pretty damn good."  
  
        Her lips spread into a smile as she assured me she would like it. She tried to peer around me to see herself in my mirror, but I had found what I was looking for and gently tilted her head back into place. Twisting the tube of lipstick I had chosen for her, I had her hold her mouth in the appropriate position so I could apply it. The color really popped on her pale skin, but it complimented her very well. It was a shade of bright red that I had only used once since I had bought it. I had thought it would look good, but it didn't go well with my skin tone, so I never used it again.  
  
        She rubbed her lips together when instructed, and I smiled at the results. But, despite her excited impatience to see her made up appearance, I had her keep her eyes shut while I brushed her hair. I didn't want her looking until I was done. That way she would get the full effect of the finished product. Our cousins Grace and Alma used to do that with Violet and me when we were all younger. The twins always used to drag us into their rooms and practice their techniques on us back when they'd had their hearts set on cosmetology -- and back when Violet would actually allow someone to come near her with beauty products. Now she practically ran at the mention of them.  
  
        "Is Tate your boyfriend?"  
  
        The sudden question made me blink, my eyes darting up to Addie's closed ones in the mirror, before I continued dragging the brush through her silky hair. It was certainly a question that made me think. Tate and I weren't anything to each other. At least not that I knew of, and before he had asked me out, he hadn't wanted anything to do with me for nearly a month. He  _was_  the father of my unborn child, but he didn't know that, and I wasn't sure when I was planning on telling him. It was a sensitive subject that had to be approached with extreme caution. Aside from that, however, I didn't think we were anything.  
  
        "Well, uh . . ." I stammered, a little uncomfortable with the topic. "It's -- it's complicated."  
  
        "He likes you, I can tell," she stated, a smile gracing her freshly painted lips. "He thinks you're a pretty girl."  
  
        Heat once again rose to my cheeks. Tate had never complimented me directly. At least not seriously. But I suppose I should have assumed as much. He obviously saw something in me, or he wouldn't have bothered with me after what happened, right? Either way, hearing that he thought I was pretty, despite it being from an outside party and not from him himself, caused my heart to flutter and swell with an emotion I wasn't quite acquainted with; I couldn't decide if I was fond of the feeling.  
  
        My bottom lip became trapped between my teeth as I thought about everything. I was actually fairly nervous for my outing with Tate tonight. He wasn't the first boy to have an interest in me or that I was interested in myself. I'd had a couple of boyfriends in the past, but none of them were really serious, and none of them every took me out anywhere. This would be my first official date. The idea that Tate thought I was 'a pretty girl,' something that probably should have been plain to see by now, somehow made it all the more special to me. It made me happy.  
  
        "Are you a virgin?"  
  
        I had been so caught up in my thoughts that I had nearly forgotten I wasn't alone. The brush slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. Feeling the heat in my cheeks rise to a new level, I coughed uncomfortably and bent down to pick it up, trying to formulate an appropriate response in my mind. As far as I was concerned, there were four different avenues I could go down. I could be honest and tell her the truth, I could lie, I could just avoid the topic and change the subject, or I could divert the attention away from myself and turn the question around on her.  
  
        My mouth decided to go with the fourth option.  
  
        "Are you?" I countered.  
  
        She giggled. "Hell no!"  
  
        With her being thirty some years of age, the fact that she was not a virgin was not surprising. But what I _did_ find surprising was that she had lost it while under Constance's conservative thumb. Then again, I was only assuming that she had lived with her mother ever since she was born, but she could have gone out on her own for a little while. Having Down Syndrome didn't hinder you from living your own life. It was only an extra chromosome.  
  
        Before I could think of anything else to say, Addie's eyes opened and focused on her reflection. I smiled at her delighted gasp and slowly dragged the brush through her hair once more before setting my hands on her shoulders. She turned around to face me with a broad grin. "Abbie, I'm beautiful!"  
  
        "You were beautiful to begin with," I told her truthfully, moving my eyes to the mirror as she looked back at our reflections, her face lit up with joy. "All I did was enhance what was already there."  
  
        Addie was excited to show her mother what I had done for her. She eagerly accepted the lipstick I decided to give to her, as the color was much too gaudy on me, and hugged me in gratitude. Her grin remained fixed in place even as I saw her out the front door and watched her practically run back to her house. It was difficult not to get caught up in her cheery aura. Something about her was contagious, much like a child's laughter, and I couldn't help but to smile even as I shut the door.  
  
        I hopped into the shower after she left. There was plenty of time until Tate would pick me up, but all the worrying I did earlier made me paranoid. What if I couldn't find something decent to wear? Knowing how hectic my mind could get when I allowed it to, I decided on getting ready a little early, so that way I would have enough time to make the proper adjustments to my appearance.  
  
        However, despite that reasoning, I did take more time under the hot water than fully necessary. But I could not say that I had left anything unattended. Everything that needed to be shaved was done so accordingly, and I had used the face wash that I hated to ensure my skin would not be oily, and my hair was lathered in jasmine-scented shampoo and condition, and every inch of my body smelled like almond and vanilla. By the time I had stepped out of the tub and pulled on my pink terrycloth robe, the water was treading the fine line of lukewarm and cold.  
  
        When I exited the bathroom, I was startled to see Chad watching from my doorway. He was leaning casually against the wooden frame, his arms folded across his chest, the faintest hint of a smirk present on his slightly scruffy face. My body jolted minutely in surprise as I hadn't been expecting tobsee him there. I hadn't heard or seen him at all until then, and I didn't even know he and Patrick had already arrived to help decorate the house for Halloween tonight. Thought I probably should have guessed considering it was now closing in on late afternoon.  
  
        Once the initial shock passed, I was vaguely annoyed. I really just wanted one time where I could walk out of my bathroom and not see anybody in my room. Tugging my robe closer to me, I muttered, "I really need to start locking my door."  
  
        "Good, you showered already," Chad drawled, ignoring my comment and causing my eyes to narrow slightly, wondering what that was supposed to mean. "Now let's get started, shall we?"  
  
        My brow furrowed in irritated confusion. "Excuse me?"  
  
        He rolled his eyes. "You  _do_  have that date with what's-his-name, right?" When I confirmed his, he nodded his head. "Right. Which means you, my dear, are in drastic need of a makeover, which I am more than happy to provide for you."  
  
        I blinked in surprise. Out of all the things I had expected him to say, that hadn't even been an option in my mind. It was a strange thing to come from him. We had only met each other yesterday, and I had been under the impression we hadn't left on the nicest of first impressions. At least _my_ first impression of _him_ wasn't as decent as it could have been. So I found it odd that he was insisting on helping me get ready for my date this evening. A full makeover nevertheless.  
  
        "Oh, well, that's very nice, but . . ." I trailed off, unable to formulate a proper response as my confusion then chose to focus on the last part of his sentence, and I frowned. "Am I really in ' _drastic_ need' of a makeover?"  
  
        Chad shook his head. "No. But you could definitely use some help. Are you in or out?"  
  
        I considered it. There was no way to avoid me fussing over my appearance when I got ready. It was just going to happen. I had a horrible habit of second guessing my choice of attire, changing clothes, and then second guessing my second guessing. It made for an anxiety-inducing ritual whenever a special occasion came up. But if I had help, maybe that wouldn't be an issue. Perhaps having someone there to guide me would eliminate that last minute doubt.  
  
        "Okay, I'm in."  
  
        Chad grinned, and suddenly I found myself at his mercy, unable to do much but let him take control. He set me down at my desk chair, which was still stationed at the mirror that he had thrown a sheet over in order to prevent me from seeing anything aside from the final product, and applied my makeup with a practiced hand. My original uneasiness around him slowly subsided the longer we were in each other's presence. I found I actually enjoyed his company. He had a certain humor, one that was based around sarcasm and sass and wit, and it was one I definitely appreciated. By the time he started on my hair, his nimble fingers gently tugging and pulling on the still drying strands, he'd had me laughing more than I had in the past few months. It was only when he started on my nails -- he waved off my protests because, "Every girl deserves a makeover every once in a while to make her feel beautiful, especially just before a date," and he wouldn't hear another word of it -- that the conversation built between us turned a little sour.  
  
        It had been clear yesterday that he and Patrick were having problems. There had been a lot of tension between them and multiple comments that had suggested the happy couple were not currently so happy. As he blended the polish into a gradient, the dark red starting at the cuticle and then bleeding into the black, he complained about how Patrick had been running around him. Chad had had his heart set on having that perfect life with his partner, complete with a baby that they were going to adopt and raise as their own, and now he was never going to get that because Patrick couldn't commit to him.  
  
        I sympathized with him. Even though I myself had never gone through that directly, I had witnessed it and felt the effects of it, and I saw firsthand how devastating that sort of behavior could be to someone.  
  
        "Can I look now?" I huffed once I had pulled on my shoes.  
  
        It had taken more time than I had anticipated for me to actually get dressed. Since I hadn't been able to see what Chad had done with my hair and face, and he had taken over my nails despite me telling him he didn't have to, my clothing was one area I wanted to have at least some say in. I still wanted his opinion and guidance, but I wanted to have the most say over what I wore tonight. We bickered over what I should wear. He wanted to dress me in a style that I felt was a little to formal for the occasion, and he automatically shut down anything I pulled out of my closet, as I wanted a more casual feel. But after a couple of compromises, he finally relented and produced an outfit that better suited what I had in mind.  
  
        I was now dressed in a white shirt with short sleeves and black trim, a black jumper skirt made out of chiffon that came down to a little above my knees, a tacky pair of black tights printed with red vampire lips complete with pointed white teeth, and my black Converse sneakers. He wasn't terribly thrilled with the style, but he had begrudgingly accepted my argument that since he had taken over everything else, it was only fair I was the primary decider on my attire for tonight, but with our compromises, I admitted that the outfit turned out better than what I originally chose.  
  
        Chad scanned my body up and down. His lips pursed as he appraised my appearance. After a moment, he sighed and nodded his head. "I've done all I can do. Go on, admire my expertise."  
  
        He removed the sheet he had tossed over my mirror and gestured for me to look. Feeling somewhat nervous, not knowing what to expect since the only thing I had seen was the clothing, I stepped forward and studied my reflection.  
  
        My eyes had been outlined in black liner that swept out to form a perfect wing that I was quite jealous of -- I could never do a winged look, it never turned out right for me, but Chad had mastered it. The shadow was a shade of red, accented by a thin sheen of white, and had been lightly brushed over with loose glitter of the same hue. Mascara coated my lashes and made them look full and long without being caked on so thick that it left marks on my lightly blushed cheek when I blinked. My lips had been colored with a matte liquid lipstick of a metallic red-black hue.  
  
        I lifted my arms and allowed my hands to skim over the back of my head. My hair had been kept in it's natural state, but whatever he had done to it had made the wavy curls a little more lively; they even bounced slightly. A portion of the strands had been taken from both sides and twisted into a braid that only held up half, the rest left to flow down to brush against my shoulders.  
  
        Chad smirked as he tossed the sheet back onto my bed where it belonged. "It's not exactly what I had in mind, but I think I did a fabulous job with what little I had to work with. Tell me you love it," he commented smugly.  
  
        My eyes cut over to him. As much as I wanted to be annoyed with his attitude, I couldn't muster it up. Instead I grinned, "I love it. Thank you."  
  
        "My pleasure. It's easy working with natural beauty. Trust me, I've done the same for others who plastic surgery couldn't even save, so you were a walk in the park in comparison."  
  
        My smile broadened. If it had been someone else, the compliment probably would have been easily brushed off as polite, but I could tell Chad was not the type to just compliment someone. Even the compliment he had tossed at my mother yesterday had been a backhanded insult. So the fact that he was genuinely complimenting me, or at least seemed to be, made me feel a little better about myself. It made me feel somewhat special. That was a boost I could definitely use for this evening.  
  
        My attention was drawn away by a knock on the front door. Chad smirked again and inclined his head towards me before exiting my room as footsteps carried across the foyer. Biting my lips, I looked back into the mirror, and I could practically see the nerves etched out on my face.  
  
        I was incredibly nervous. There was probably no good reason to be, not after everything we had already done, but I was anyway. It probably wasn't the date itself that was making me anxious, though, and was more than likely the whole situation in its entirety. I was going on a date, my first legitimate date, with the father of the child that was currently growing inside of me. A life that he hadn't the faintest idea even existed.  
  
        As bad as it was, I wasn't planning on telling him. Not tonight. I knew I had to tell him soon, he deserved to know he was going to be a father, but I didn't want to do it while we were out. It was amazingly selfish of me, but I just wanted one nice night out with a decent guy I cared about, and I was afraid that bringing an unborn baby into the equation would ruin that for me.  
  
        "Abbie!" Mom called up, dragging me from my thoughts. "Tate's here!"  
  
        Mom had been thrilled yesterday when I told her about my date. She had been a little less so when I'd revealed that it was Tate who had asked me, but after a series of worried concerns and inquiries, she had appeared to accept that I did like him. She'd assured me that if I thought he was a good guy at heart, and I was happy being around him, then that was good enough for her. Ben, on the other had, was the complete opposite. He openly disliked the idea and protested the date in a rare instance of him actually acting like a caring father, but after I'd made it clear I didn't need his approval and Mom had overrode his input, he reluctantly gave in and did not say another word on the matter. In fact, he refused to say another word to me the rest of the day, which was a little more obvious than before since he was putting actual effort into doing so.  
  
        "Coming!" I returned.  
  
        In a last minute check, I turned sideways and once again judged my growing figure, eyeing the bump that was visible through my clothes. This led me to rushing to my closet and rapidly pushing the hanged clothes aside in search of something to hide my increasingly visible condition. Tugging on a grey sweater with a black skull on the front, I returned to my previous position, this time placing a hand on the slightly swollen area. It was still noticeable to my eyes, but I felt comfortable that it would remain hidden from others, and therefore concealed from my family and my date.  
  
        After taking a quick moment to use the bathroom, something that was becoming more frequent in my daily routine, I sucked in a deep breath to steady my nerves and grabbed my clutch -- since my outfit didn't have pockets, I decided to use the small bag to hold my phone, wallet, and keys -- before skipping down the stairs at a pace that probably should have been slower and more cautious. Tate and my mom were chatting by the door. In Tate's hand was a bouquet of some of the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. There appeared to be approximately ten of them, each one being no more than four inches wide, and the petals were a unique candy cane pattern of raspberry red stripes and crisp white mid-veins.  
  
        The first stair off the middle platform creaked, alerting them as I continued towards the bottom. Their conversation was paused as they both turned to me. Tate grinned, and I felt my own lips curl up in a returning smile, which faltered when Mom lifted her hands and put a camera up to her eye, snapping a photo. The action made me stop a couple steps from the landing. I pinched my lips together and stared at her. My cheeks flared up with embarrassment.  
  
        "Honey, you look beautiful!" Mom gushed, either oblivious to my mortification or deliberately inducing it, before glancing over at my date. "Doesn't she look beautiful?"  
  
        Tate nodded his head, his grin fixed in place. "She does," he agreed, meeting my eye. That didn't help the heat simmer down any. I didn't know which was worse -- Mom doing this, or Tate being here to _witness_ Mom doing this.  
  
        She seemed to realize that I wasn't going to move unless she put away the camera, so she finally lowered it and gestured me forward. I slowly stepped down to the landing, eyeing her in case she decided to bring it out again, and turned to Tate. A smile was coaxed from me as he, continuing to grin, held out the bouquet for me to take. I tentatively accepted it and lifted the flowers to my nose to inhale the sweet aroma.  
  
        Lowering them, I felt my lips curl up even further. "You're the first boy to ever give me flowers," I admitted. It barely took a second before I realized how stupid that sounded and felt the instant flash of heat.  
  
        He was the only boy outside of the family to ever give me any sort of flower. The gesture was a genuinely sweet one that I truly appreciated, but I had probably ruined the moment with my verbal stupidity. That was what happened when I got nervous. My brain to mouth filter was barely existent anyway, but anxiety tended to wash away whatever little bit was there and left me prone to what I referred to as 'word vomit.' I was liable to say anything that came to my mind without thinking about whether or not I should say it. Half the time I didn't even realize I was thinking it before it was out in the open.  
  
        "Thank you," I rushed out, trying to make up for my verbal blunder. "They're beautiful, really."  
  
        Tate carded a hand through his hair, raking his fingers through the mop of matte blonde curls. "The woman at the flower shop called them 'Amaryllis Fairytale,'" he informed me, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. My teeth pressed down on my lip as I smiled at him.  
  
        A familiar clicking sound drew my eyes away from the boy in front of me. My head turned for my eyes to land on my mother, who once again had the camera lifted up, her finger poised on the button. I groaned and ducked my head in embarrassment, partially hoping to hide behind the bouquet, before giving my date an apologetic glance. He seemed vaguely uncomfortable, but at the same time, his dark eyes glinted in faint amusement.  
  
        "Come on, you two, just a couple more," Mom insisted, a broad smile brightening her face as she gestured with her hand for us to step beside each other. "A little closer now, that's it."  
  
        "Mom, please," I whined.  
  
        "Abbie, this is your first date." My eyes slid closed in utter humiliation as Tate's shy grin turned into a somewhat proud slanted smile. "You missed your prom, so let me have this."  
  
        Another groan slipped from me, but this one was relenting. She had always been the type of mother to take photos of just about everything Violet or I did. Everything that was going on with my family had currently been occurring when prom had rolled around, so I had missed that in favor of staying home and looking after things. Mom had felt bad about that, and she really didn't ask for much as a mother, so I supposed I could suck it up and let her get a couple more photos before we left.  
  
        She had Tate and I stand next to each other in front of the door. My hand remained curled around the green stems of the flowers and held the bouquet in front of me. I jumped a bit at the feeling of his arm going around my shoulders heat flaring in my cheeks, but Mom thought it was a cute pose and encouraged me to get closer. A little hesitant, I did as she said and leaned into his side, allowing my own arm to slide around his waist. I let Mom take a few more pictures before cutting her off.  
  
        After insisting that we had to get going, Mom reluctantly agreed and took the flowers from me, giving me a curfew of ten o'clock before letting us leave. A sigh of relief escaped me as soon I shut the door behind us. That was probably the most embarrassed I'd ever been before. I was just glad that it was over and we finally on our way.  
  
        Folding my arms over my chest as we walked, I apologized to Tate. "I'm really sorry about that. My mom just hasn't had a lot to be excited about lately, you know?"  
  
        "Don't worry about it," he assured, chuckling lightly as he smiled at me. "So, is this really your first date?"  
  
        That was something I really wished she hadn't had said. What I had said was embarrassing, but that factoid had just furthered it all for me. Most girls had probably been on a few dates by the time they're seventeen. Hell, even though it had been a mistake for me that had resulted in a life-long consequence, most girls had probably even put out before I had. Not that it was something to be proud of, but in my mind it was an indicator of how much of a 'late bloomer' I was in that department.  
  
        Coughing in discomfort, I mumbled out an affirmation. Tate's grin just broadened, making his two dimples create deeper craters in his cheeks, and his hand sought out mine. Our fingers intertwined. My eyes remained fixed on the cracked cement while he continued to gently lead me towards our destination. I knew my face would be redder than a tomato if I dared to look up at him. It was silly really, given all that we had already done, but this date suddenly had me feeling like a foolish schoolgirl with her first crush. That was nearly as embarrassing as everything else that evening.  
  
        We walked for a bit longer before reaching the festival he had told me about. It was small, set up in a park that looked like it was used more for scenery than recreation, but it was cute. There was a photo booth, a tent for face-painting, various booths featuring carnival-like games, different stations to buy food and drink, a couple apple-bobbing stations, an area off to the side with a fake pumpkin patch where you could actually harvest the pumpkins, a haunted house that had been transformed from someone's nearby garage, and a small building that I assumed was a public restroom. Speakers placed around the property were playing semi-spooky sounds.  
  
        The first thing we did was hit the face-painting tent. It was something that Tate really wanted to do for some reason, and I didn't object to the idea, barring the protests that followed when he insisted on paying for both his and mine. Having someone pay for me had never been very comfortable on my end, it never felt right, but after a moment of bartering, we reached a decent compromise. I could pay for the face-painting, but he would pay for any games we played, and we would split the cost of any food or drink. He was reluctant to let me pay for anything -- according to him, he asked me out, therefore he should be the one to pay for everything we did -- but he eventually relented when he realized I was serious about not allowing him to pay for me all night.  
  
        It only cost five dollars to get your face painted, so it's not like I was wasting my entire paycheck on it. To make it more fun, we decided to choose each other's design, and we couldn't look until it was finished. I ended up with a small sugar skull on my left cheek. The white base was outlined in black, complete with eyebrows, a nose, and the upper and lower mandible; two red flowers served as the eyes with black circles in the middle. Tate's entire face, on the other hand, was covered completely in black and white. By coincidence, I had stuck with the 'skull' theme, and he now had black around the eyes and nose like sockets, and some on the sides of his jaw with teeth drawn over the skin in the middle like a skeleton. He had to push back his hair so it was out of his face, but he seemed pleased with my choice.  
  
        We hit the photo booth next. Just like the ones seen in shopping malls, we got to choose our theme for five dollars, which he paid for, and we just stuck with the default Halloween one, and had to sit down beside each other on the interior bench and pose for a series of four photos. For the first one we just did the traditional picture with us smiling at the camera. The next one was just us showcasing our painted faces with slightly silly faces. We both sucked in our cheeks to imitate a fish, and I even crossed my eyes for good measure, for the third one. When it came time for us to pose for the fourth one, Tate thought it would be a good idea to start poking my side, lightly jabbing his finger through the sweater and triggering one of my ticklish spots. We had both been in the middle of laughing when the camera took the last one.  
  
        After we collected our two strips of photos, one for each of us, we grabbed something to eat. There had been some debate, but it wasn't long before we were sharing a funnel cake and had a soda each. The total only came out to about eight dollars, which I guess wasn't _too_ bad for this kind of station. We picked out a picnic table away from everything to eat at so we could talk in relative quiet without having to raise our voices to be heard. The conversation was composed mostly of small talk as we sat next to each other on the same side, but I what Addie had told me sparked up a question that swam around inside my head, and when it became too pressing for me to ignore, I took the leap and put it out there.  
  
        "Tate, what are we?"  
  
        My eyes remained focused on the funnel cake to avoid looking at him directly. But I could see him in my peripheral vision, and he looked appropriately stunned. I bit my lips and picked at the fried dough sprinkled in powdered sugar. Perhaps I shouldn't have just blurted it out, but I just had to know how he saw us, how he saw our situation. We could be anything at this point, and we also could very well be nothing. I wanted to know either way, I didn't want to be left wondering.  
  
        It took a long moment for him to respond. When he did, he cleared his throat beforehand and stammered a bit, as though searching for the right words, before finally speaking. "What, uh -- what do you mean, exactly?"  
  
        I felt myself deflate marginally at his counter question. Explaining myself was something I had been hoping I'd get out of, as it was embarrassing enough to ask the question, let alone explain what I meant by it. Maybe this was one inquiry that could have -- _should_ have -- waited until a little later before demanding an answer. But I couldn't back out now. What would I say? _Never mind, I didn't mean anything by it, let's just continue our date and let this hang over our heads the whole time, there's no need to provide an answer._ No, I had asked, and it deserved a proper response.  
  
        Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to look up at him. "What are we -- if we're anything at all, what are we? Like . . . what am I, to you?" I elaborated.  
  
        I had to literally bite my tongue to prevent the sentence, "Aside from the mother of your unborn child," coming out next. That was something I intended to keep to myself for just a while longer.  
  
        He began picking at the loose threads on his green cardigan. His eyes were downcast as he chewed lightly on his bottom lip, appearing to be thinking about my question. I resumed my habit of picking at my nails while I waited with baited breath. Now that it was out there, and I was actively searching and waiting for an answer, it was like each second had been transformed into a span of minutes, and the minutes into hours. But I tried not to let my nerves show anymore than I'm sure they already did. I just kept chipping away at the red and black nail polish -- Chad was not going to be happy about that.  
  
        Tate's hand suddenly came down on mine, which had been lying on the table as I destroyed Chad's work, and stilled my movements. My eyes lifted to meet his. Whatever emotion he was experiencing was present in his deep brown irises, and I was startled by the intensity of it, as it had darkened the color to a near black hue. I found myself unable to speak as my mouth suddenly went dry at the close proximity, which suddenly seemed much closer than it originally had, even though we had been sitting next to each other on the same bench ever since we found the picnic table.  
  
        We stayed like that for another beat before he leaned in and gently pressed his lips to mine. They were softer than I remembered them being, even with the dried face paint, but the friction still elicited a pleased shiver from me, and I relaxed into him. It ended much too soon for my liking though. Tate pulled away after only a couple of seconds and smiled softly. Realizing this was the answer I was looking for, I smiled in return, leaning in to kiss him again, the contact lasting a little longer before we separated.  
  
        I didn't need a verbal response to be assured. The way he looked at me, the tenderness of his lips against mine -- that was all I needed to know his answer.  
  
        It felt as though a grin had fixed itself permanently onto my face as we strolled around the decorated park after finishing off the funnel cake and carbonated beverages. What had started off as an anxiety-inducing evening was turning out to be one of the best times I'd ever had, and seeing as how we hadn't actually done much, that said a lot about the company. Tate was keeping me entertained, and even though it was painfully obvious he was making the extra effort to do so, I found I was perfectly happy just being with him. It seemed as though he was happy, too, and the thought provoked a brighter smile from me.  
  
        His attention, however, was soon deterred to one of the booths. It was one of those ring toss games. There were glass soda bottles whose labels had been replaced with Halloween ones reading _'Poison'_ or _'Toxic'_ with miniature lights taped to the backs so they would each have their own colorful glow. The rings to be tossed around the necks of the bottles were simple glow-in-the-dark bracelets. Then there were various prizes set up along the booth's interior. There were small trinkets and balloons and stuffed animals, just like at the other game booths, but one in particular instantly caught my eye when Tate directed us over. It was a giant stuffed bear that was probably around my size, if not just a little smaller.  
  
        I pouted slightly. There was no way I would be able to win that. I was horrible at these type of games. My hand-eye coordination was not trained to have a good enough aim. If I was lucky, I would maybe get a single ring around a bottle, but the rest always either flew off to the side or just bounced off and hit the ground. I had learned to not waste my money on those games because I never got anything out of it except a lighter wallet.  
  
        Tate challenged me to a round. My first reaction had been to decline, but he persisted, so I agreed since he was the one paying for it. Once he had fished some dollars from his pocket and traded them in, and we had bracelets rings each in our hands, we started tossing them at the bottles. I tried to focus my aim, but like always, none of my rings hit any of the targets. Tate's face lit up with pride as three of his rings clattered around the necks of the bottles. I puffed out my cheeks and blew out a gust of disappointed air, but I couldn't help but to laugh at his child-like enjoyment.  
  
        Since he got the majority of the rings tossed around the bottles, he was given a prize. Instead of a small trinket like I had been expecting, he was handed a stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear. It was a little smaller than a regular sized teddy bear. Seeing the toy made me remember back to a time when I'd had one exactly like that. I remembered the fake fur being the same golden hue, the short red shirt reading _'Pooh_ _'_ across it in bright yellow -- it had been my favorite thing to sleep with when I was between the ages of five and seven. Then it was passed down to Violet when I grew tired of it, and now it was probably being cuddled by another small child as they drifted off to sleep.  
  
        Holding out the bear, Tate turned to me. "Here. I, uh, I want you to have this."  
  
        I blinked in surprise. For some reason, it hadn't even occurred to me that he'd maybe want to give me a stuffed bear he had won. Maybe because I wasn't so self-centered that I would automatically assume he'd give me anything he'd won. The gesture took me off guard. My eyes alternated between him and the toy for a second before I shook myself out of it enough to speak.  
  
        Shaking my head, I protested, "Tate, _you_ won that. It's yours, you don't have to --"  
  
        "I know I don't have to," he cut me off. "Like I said, I _want_ you to have this, Abbie. I mean, I know it's probably not what you wanted, you probably wanted the big one, but . . ." He shrugged and chuckled. "I don't think this would go very well with my décor anyway, so here."  
  
        His joke elicited a small snort from me. He was certainly not the type of guy who could say a word like 'décor' and get away with it. Even though I felt I shouldn't accept it, since he won it with _his_ money, his hopeful expression was one I couldn't just say no to or ignore. So I extended my arm out and grabbed the miniature Pooh. My hands squeezed lightly as I pulled it closer to me.  
  
        "Well, I don't think it really matches my décor either," I teased with a genuine smile, "but thank you, I love it." He started to reply, but my phone began ringing, and I motioned for him to wait a second while I dug it out of my clutch; when I saw who it was, I gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I have to take this. It shouldn't be long."  
  
        He nodded. "Yeah, no problem. Take your time," he insisted. "Here, I'll hold this for you." He retrieved Pooh and left my hands free to take the call.  
  
        I gave him one last apologetic smile before walking away. The area was a little noisy, and I wanted to be able to hear. Once I was by the picnic tables again, I slid my finger across the screen and accepted the call, lifting the phone up to my ear. "Hello?"  
  
         _"Hey, sweetheart,"_ Lana replied, her slightly husky voice only slightly garbled over the speakers. _"Dr. Kirkland just got back with me a little bit ago, and you have an appointment on Wednesday for your first ultrasound."  
  
        _Lightly biting my lip, I glanced back at Tate, seeing him having another go at that game. I cleared my throat and responded, "Okay, great. Thanks. What time?"  
  
        She made an extended _'uh'_ sound as the faint sound of paper came through the receiver. It only took a second before she found what she was looking for, and her voice came through the line. _"Three o'clock. Hopefully you'll be off work by then."_ After I told her I wasn't scheduled to work Wednesday, something about Jeanine having to cut back shifts, the speakers set up around the property suddenly increased in volume as Michael Jackson's  _Thriller_ replaced the spooky noises.  _"Wow, it sounds busy over there. What are you guys up to tonight?"_  she asked with a brief laugh.  
  
        "Well, Mom and Ben are busy trying to get  house to sell, and Vi is probably sulking in her room like she has been," I offered, hesitating slightly before continuing, "I'm actually on a date right now . . . Can we talk later?"  
  
        She gasped into the phone. It wasn't one of those sharp inhales, but a soft sound that indicated she understood. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't know. Who are you with? You know what, never mind that, you can tell me later. I'll let you get back to your date. Have fun, sweetheart. Love you!"  
  
        "Love you too, Lana."  
  
        The call ended, leaving me standing there with a confused frown. I didn't know what it was about me going on a date that had the maternal figures in my life acting all out of sorts. Both Mom and Lana acted weird. Mom I sort of understood, but Lana not so much, as I didn't think she knew this was my first one. But perhaps I was wrong and she did know that. Maybe Mom told her. Either way, their odd behavior wasn't very comforting to me. I didn't like it when people acted unlike they normally did. The last time that happened, our family was ripped apart.  
  
        With a sigh, I shook my head and placed my phone back into my clutch, doing the clasp to make sure everything stayed put. Then I headed for the public restrooms. For the past few days, I had noticed a change in how often I had to void my bladder. In the span of a couple hours, I had to rush to the bathroom several times, which was more than usual; even coffee didn't go through me that quick. While I was aware frequent urination was a symptom of pregnancy, it didn't make it any less inconvenient or annoying, and I was _not_ looking forward to what more there was to come.  
  
        When I finished up, I searched for Tate, surprised to see him back at the picnic tables. However, I was more surprised to see a giant stuffed bear placed next to him. It looked like the same one that had caught my eye earlier, with the same chocolate brown 'fur' and white accents. Tate was sitting down on the wooden bench, Winnie the Pooh sitting on the table's surface, but when he spotted me making my way over, he stood up. A dimpled grin was plastered across his face as I came within earshot.  
  
        "Tate, what is this?" I asked, gesturing towards the bigger toy.  
  
        He placed a hand on the bear's head. "This is the bear I wanted to get you the first time. It took me three more rounds, but I finally got all the rings around the bottles, and I won this. For you," he added.  
  
        A brief moment passed where I didn't know what to say. It was probably silly, but I actually felt touched that he had taken the time and spent the money to retry the game three times just to win me something, that he had won and gifted to me two prizes. I searched for the right words. A simple 'thank you' might have been enough, but somehow that didn't feel appropriate, so I just smiled and brought him in for a hug.  
  
        His arms wound around my back as mine snaked around his neck. Our embrace lasted for a few seconds before I leaned back and then forward again, this time pressing my lips against his. The kiss was soft, with the both of us smiling into it, and it made me question why I had let myself go so long without him. He made me happy.  
  
        We separated after a moment. Tate let go of me, therefore forcing me to let go of him, and grabbed the big bear, tucking the stuffed animal under his arm. "Come on," he urged enthusiastically. Slightly confused, yet incredibly curious, I followed his lead and picked up Pooh.  
  
        As he reached out and took my hand, intertwining our fingers like on the walk to the festival, I asked curiously, "Where are we going?"  
  
        "There's something I want to show you."

* * *

**Please tell me if I failed to keep anyone in character. I tried to, and I also tried to show a different side to some, but keeping true to someone's character can be a challenging when not being able to refer to a transcript. I hope I did fairly well, but if not, please do not hesitate to tell me.**   
  
**As always, I encourage feedback, whether it be a positive comment or constructive criticism. To those who have done this, thank you so much. Your input really helps me determine which areas I need to work on. So please do not be afraid to tell me your thoughts in a comment.**


	20. Trick or Treat

Tate had been the only one who knew where we were going, but I knew immediately when we had reached the spot. It was gorgeous, the waves crashing against the sand and the white of the foam nearly glowing in the darkness. The only light came from the steadily rising moon and a fire that someone had left burning a little ways back from the water.  
  
        We sat down on the sand. Our items -- the two bears and my handbag -- were set to the side as we relaxed into each other. I couldn't stop staring out at the water. Despite how long I had lived in Los Angeles, and how many times I had visited, I had never been to the beach. It was amazing just how beautiful it truly was. And it was incredibly soothing, from the rippling of the waves to the refreshing scent of salt water mixed with something exclusive to large bodies of water.  
  
        The scene was also romantic. It was like something right out of a movie. A couple sitting on the beach, the ocean stretched out in front of them, a fire going with flames licking the night air, the wood crackling underneath -- it was the perfect setting.  
  
        With a contented sigh, I moulded into Tate's side, curling up against him with my knees pulled up to my chest, my arms wound around them. My head rested on his shoulder as he held me to him. We stayed like that for a while, not saying anything and just looking out at the water, enjoying the peaceful moment. Its tranquility sincerely made me question why I had ever wanted anything different. Being in his arms, it made me feel warm and safe; it made me feel loved. I wouldn't trade that comfort for anything.  
  
        I lifted my head to look at him. His focus remained forward, as though he was so enraptured by nature's beauty that he hadn't noticed. My eyes roamed over his face, taking in every last detail. The light from the flickering flames was dancing off his perfect, angular features, casting fiery shadows that somehow made him more beautiful. 'That was an odd term to use for a male, it was one usually reserved for females, but somehow it suited him, therefore I kept using it. Tate was beautiful, pure and simple.  
  
        A fond grin stretched across my face, I leaned up and placed a puckered kiss on his jawline, following my instincts and not really thinking about the action. He tilted his head down at the contact and, moving before I could pull back, captured my mouth with his. I smiled into the kiss and brought a hand up to cup the back of his neck. My fingers slid upward until the tips were buried within his mop of shaggy hair. His arms wrapped around me, tugging me further into him, snaking around my back to hold me closer.  
  
        Tate's lips enveloped mine as he gently pressed forward until I was successfully sandwiched between him and the sand. He moved his right hand to cradle the back of my head, his knuckles creating an effective barrier to protect it from the ground, groaning against my mouth as both of my hands moved up to delve into his messy hair. I reveled in the way it vibrated against my lips and echoed into my mouth. The sensations were so much more prominent when there was no medication involved. The Xanax I had taken that one night had really dulled everything. I hadn't realized how much until now.  
  
        The feeling of our bodies pressed together, softer curves against harder muscle, ignited a fire within me. Desire coursed through my blood, hot and thick, and I never wanted anything more than to feel his arms around me and his lips owning mine. My head was growing light from the over overwhelming sensation of hungry anticipation. I broke away from his mouth to breathe, and his lips scorched their way down my throat instead. Carding my hands through his hair, I buried my face in the matte blonde strands, lightly inhaling his scent.  
  
        He waited a couple of seconds before shoving his mouth against mine once more. Through the grunt of surprise at the sudden action, my lips opened with his, and his tongue twisted with mine. My grip on his nape tightened when he briefly caught my bottom lip between his teeth before delving back into my mouth. A pleasant burn followed everywhere that his skin touched mine.  
  
        Tate moved the hand on my back around so it slid underneath the hem of my sweater. My jumper skirt and shirt acted as a barrier, but the heat of his touch burned through the articles and onto my stomach. He started gliding up over the small bump. Anxiety swelled and swiftly replaced the longing, causing me to tense and move my mouth away from his.  
  
        "Tate . . ." I uttered.  
  
        A hum came in response, the sound vibrating against my skin as he focused on my jawline. I felt his lips twist into a pleased smirk when he hit that spot just behind my jaw, and I released a groan, partially in response to that and partially because he wasn't paying attention. Gritting my teeth, I lowered my hands so they were flat against his chest, applying pressure and lightly shoving him off of me. He lifted himself up, creating space between our bodies, and gazed down at me. The faint hint of frustration etched in with the curiosity made me grimace in a moment of guilt, but the reminder of what -- or rather  _who_ \-- was literally between us now made me realize we needed to stop before things went any further. I just didn't feel right continuing in such a fashion when he wasn't even aware of the life in the middle.  
  
        Swallowing, I averted my eyes, feeling somewhat ashamed of myself for allowing things to escalate as they did. "I -- we . . . need to slow down, I mean -- I'm not --"  
  
        I didn't know how to say it without revealing the secret. But he seemed to get the idea, because he nodded and leaned back slightly, bringing me with him as he sat up. "It's okay, Abbie, we don't have to do anything you don't want to. Just . . . please stay? I'm not ready to go. Not yet," he pleaded. His hands pressed against my back, keeping me up with him, but not quite as close a we just were.  
  
        "I'm not going anywhere, Tate."  
  
        We shared a close-lipped smile and adjusted ourselves into a comfortable position. He sat with his legs bent at the knee and opened, and I was sitting cross-legged between them with my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me. My head lolled back to rest on his shoulder. We just sat there, once again looking out at the beach, enjoying each other's company while entwined in an embrace. It was silent between us for a moment before he spoke and interrupted the rippling water.  
  
        "I used to come here when the world closed in and got so small I couldn't breathe," Tate admitted quietly, as though aware of the serenity he had disrupted. "I'd look out at the ocean, and I'd think,  _'Yo, douche bag, high school counts for jack shit.'_ " When I tilted my head to glance up at him, he was already looking down at me, smiling with the slightest upturn of the mouth. "Kurt Cobain, Quentin Tarantino, Brando, De Niro, Pacino -- all high school dropouts." He frowned and returned his gaze to the water. "I hated high school. So I'd come here and I'd look out at this vast, limitless expanse. Then it's like, that's your life, man. You can do anything, be anything." Sighing, his eyes floated down to rest on me once more. "Screw high school. That's -- It's just a blip in your timeline. Don't get stuck there."  
  
        I didn't say anything. All I could do was stare at him, pondering his words, thinking about how profound they were and the meaning behind them. Tate had never struck me as the deep, contemplative sort. But his words suggested that he could be when he felt the need. What he said made a lot of sense to me. High school was a horrid place for some teenagers, and we were always told that there was no future for us if we didn't succeed in education, but there were so many out there who exceeded all of our expectations without so much as a high school diploma. Anybody could achieve their dreams with just the right amount of dedication and ambition.  
  
        Tate sounded so passionate about the subject. Like he really wanted to drive that point forward, to not let me get stuck in that world, had I still been in it. There had been a gleam of pain darkening his eyes when he spoke. It reached out to me, drew me in, because it was the same thing I'd seen in Violet's eyes a few times when she would be absentmindedly questioned about school over dinner. Knowing some of the struggles that she went through during the day, I could only guess that Tate had gone through the same, and maybe that was at least part of the reason he was homeschooled now.  
  
        "That's pretty . . . heavy," I commented, not really knowing  _what_  to say to that, before allowing a tiny smirk to tug at my lips. "But you forget that I've already escaped that 'blip.'"  
  
        His solemn expression faded and was replaced with one better recognized, one that was lighter and more playful. "Oh, that's right -- you're a nerd, I did forget," he sniggered. He laughed when I gaped in false disbelief and hurt, leaning away slightly to shove his shoulder.  
  
        Giggling along with him, I said, "I'm not a nerd, you ass."  
  
        In all honesty, I probably _was_ a nerd. But I didn't care. If I was a nerd, it got me out of school one year earlier than the rest of my peers, and it did give me time to save up for college. However, I wasn't sure how that plan was going to go now that I was going to have a child to care for; I probably wouldn't be able to go to college, at least not for a long time. All my saved money was going to go towards raising the baby. There wouldn't be any resources available to me to attend college -- no time, no money, and no energy. Any further education was probably just a pipe dream for me now.  
  
        A twig snapped somewhere behind us, the sound attracting my attention. I glanced over my shoulder to see five teenagers dressed the part for Halloween. There was a cheerleader with a bullet wound to the heart, a jock with a varsity jacket shot directly above his eyes, a boy with a slightly nerdy appearance whose jaw appeared to be blown off at the side, a gothic-looking girl with black everyday makeup shot in the side of her head, and a punk rocker with long brown hair who might have been shot in the neck. They looked like the dead versions of _The Breakfast Club_. Their costumes were done with incredible talent -- the gruesome makeup looked real, like I was staring at genuinely dead teenagers.  
  
        Seeing they were headed directly for us, I nudged Tate to get his attention. He glanced in the direction I gestured and watched as they got closer. "You know, there's a whole lot of beach, guys," he called out reasonably, clearly not wanting to start anything but wanting some space for us to be alone. I felt the same way, but something uneasy settled over me, a bad feeling sinking to the pit of my stomach; like my intuition was alerting me that something was going to happen.  
  
        "Good job, Tate," the jock said nonchalantly with a hint of hidden malice. "You finally came out of hiding. We've been waiting years for you to show your face." He sneered slightly as I frowned in confusion, and when I snuck a peek at Tate, he had the same confused expression. "But you like Mommy's little safe house, don't you?"  
  
        The group started to surround us. Feeling threatened, I grabbed onto Tate's cardigan, my fingers curling into the green fabric. Cautiously removing his arms from around me, Tate stated, "I don't know you."  
  
        The cheerleader kneeled down to our level, her eyes meeting Tate's in a stare, anger and sadness swimming together in the hazel brown of her irises. "You know, I'm actually surprised you have the balls to show your face around here."  
  
        "Yeah." Her friend, the girl with the blown-out brains, kneeled down on his other side, meeting his gaze with the same intensity. "Maybe you should have worn a mask instead of that face paint."  
  
        "I'm not that into Halloween --"  
  
        "But this year's different, right?" she continued, interrupting him as her eyes slid briefly over to me. "You have a date. How cute is that?"  
  
        My heart was pounding with anticipation. I didn't know what was going on, how these kids knew Tate, or what he did to them -- all I knew was that this was a potentially dangerous situation. They were all pissed and unpredictable in my eyes as I did not know them or anything about them. I felt sincerely threatened by them, feeling very much like their prey as they surrounded the two of us, glaring and looking ready to pounce at a moment's notice.  
  
        I was left feeling especially vulnerable when Tate shoved the gothic blonde back, climbed to his feet, and demanded I be left alone. Without my hand holding onto him, without him directly next to me, I felt like I was in the open, even as the two girls both rose to Tate's level as he stood. I quickly clambered to my feet as well and grabbed Tate's arm. "Look, let's just leave --"  
  
        Ignoring me, the jock said softly, "We don't want her. We want _you_."  
  
        The blonde turned to her punk friend with the leather jacket and suggested, "How about we drown him?"  
  
        "No," the jock shot down, shaking his head. "We should shoot him right between the eyes."  
  
        My own eyes trailed up to the bullet wound on his forehead, inches away from his light brown hair. It did look real. The dark blood trickled from the irregularly shaped hole down to the bridge of his nose. Specks of what appeared to be dried blood stained the area around his forehead. If I looked hard enough, I could have sworn I saw something lodged within the wound, something round.  
  
        Swallowing to wet my suddenly dry mouth, I slammed my teeth into my bottom lip, hoping the sudden jolt of sharp pain would shake me out of my visible uneasiness enough to speak confidently. "Funny, but we're all a little old for cheesy Halloween pranks," I stated, praising myself silently when I could not detect a quiver I was sure would be evident. I tugged gently on Tate's arm. "Let's just go," I pleaded. Whether or not they were serious about this was unbeknownst to me. Either way, I wanted to get out of there before I found out.  
  
        Someone scoffed, and my head whipped around to face the gothic-punk girl. "Somebody please waste this bitch," she hissed. Her hard blue eyes narrowed at me as I stared back.  
  
        "Yeah, why does he get a girlfriend?" the punk boy quipped. "I don't have a girlfriend." He turned to the jock. "Kyle, you?"  
  
        "No." Kyle shook his head. "I haven't had sex in a long time."  
  
        Tate's head moved back and forth in a negative gesture of disgust. His hand floated down to rest urgently on my back as he bent down to pick up the large bear. "Come on, let's go," he muttered as I eagerly followed his lead, grabbing Winnie the Pooh and my clutch. "This beach sucks." He glared at the group. "Someone should pick up the trash." Looking away from him, he began leading me away from the scene. I felt all five pairs of eyes trained on us as we walked across the sand with our gazes pointed forward.  
  
        The walk home was tense. Neither of us spoke. My eyes would periodically glance up at him, and I could see how bothered he was. Those kids had seriously freaked him out. They had freaked me out, too. I hadn't felt safe around them. As much as I yearned to question him about it, learn what it had been all about, something told me I shouldn't pry into it. Something told me I didn't want to know, that it was better to be left out of the loop. Ignorance was bliss, after all, at least that's how the saying went. And maybe they were right. Maybe it was better not knowing certain things.  
  
        Right?  
  
        No one was home when we finally got back. A note had been placed on the kitchen island explaining that they had all gone out and would be back in a few hours. Chad had apparently offered to look after the house until they returned, but as I didn't see him or Patrick anywhere, I assumed they had shut things down for the night and left. I took the opportunity of an empty house and invited Tate inside. I really didn't want him out there alone when those kids could be anywhere, and I was sure Ben would have pulled rank as the breadwinner and made sure that he couldn't have stayed for longer than just seeing me back home.  
  
        After a moment of discussing, we decided to watch  _It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_. My first thought had been to grab my collection of horror movies and let him select one for us to watch, but I couldn't watch anything like that since I discovered the horrible history behind the house. So we had merely flipped through the television channels until we landed on the cartoon as it was at around the halfway point. He hadn't seen it in a few years, according to him, and I hadn't seen it since Violet and I were little. It used to be her favorite Halloween special. She'd throw a fit if we wouldn't let her watch it all day when it aired in a continuous loop for about twelve hours.  
  
        Linus' rant continued over the end credits as I finally decided I couldn't hold back any longer. I turned to Tate, accidentally dislodging the arm that had been around my shoulders during the show, and said, "What was that all about, at the beach?"  
  
        A troubled expression scrawled across his face. He shrugged. "I don't know. I -- I don't know them, I don't know what that was," he replied. Normally I might have been skeptical, but I could tell that even if he _did_ know them, he truly did not remember them.  
  
        Still, I had to ask. "Well, then, how do _they_ know _you_? They certainly seemed to hate you."  
  
        "I really don't know, Abbie, but . . . they're -- they're just high school assholes. The world's full of popular kids who get off being mean and cruel. You should understand, surely you saw that in school."  
  
        "Of course I understand that, Tate, but they threatened to kill you!" I reminded him, letting the emotion pour into my voice. I was feeling so many things -- worry, concern, fear, frustration -- and I wanted to convey that to him so maybe he'd understand how important this was to me. "Surely you must have done _something_? I mean . . ."  
  
        His jaw clenched, and I trailed off as his eyes hardened, knowing I had hit a nerve somewhere. "I don't _know_ them, Abigail, I didn't _do_ anything, he repeated harshly. It didn't seem as though he meant to sound as rough as he did. But my questions had certainly gotten to him.  
  
        I nodded my head and glanced away, pressing my lips together as the wheels in my head turned. Something just was not adding up. Those teenagers obviously knew him and had something personal against him. But he claimed not to even know who they were, and the look in his eyes made me believe that was the truth -- or that he just didn't _remember_ them. And if that was the case . . . Well, I wasn't sure if I even  _wanted_ to know what Tate had done to them to provoke death threats towards him.  
  
        Loud barking from outside interrupted what I had just begun to say. Hallie, who had been lying quietly on her bed in the kitchen, joined in and rushed to the foyer, her nails clicking against the hardwood as she peered out the window. Frowning, I excused myself and got up to see what was causing all the commotion, moving aisde the curtain and peeking out the window with Hallie. My searching eyes immediately fell on the five teenagers from the beach.  
  
        "It's them, they must have followed us," I announced dumbly, surprised to see them in my front yard. But that was swiftly replaced with irritation. "All right, time to end this bullshit."  
  
        I darted into the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife, nearly bumping into Tate as I came back through. He watched me curiously as I palmed the wooden handle a couple of times before glancing at him, ordering for him to stay inside and keep Hallie back while I dealed with them. He wouldn't be harmed as long as I was involved in this, and I had been involved the moment they ruined our date. I tightened my grip on the knife -- I hoped it didn't come down to me using it, but I wasn't going in unprepared -- and threw open the door before walking outside to confront them. They were all sitting around, perfectly at ease, but all eyes instantly locked onto me when I stepped out under the porch light.  
  
        "Oh, great," Kyle smirked. "He sends his little girlfriend out."  
  
        My grip on the knife reflexively tightened. I was feeling a tad threatened already, but this was my house, and as much as I hated the place, I refused to be intimidated where I lived. "You need to leave. This is private property. I _will_ call the police," I warned.  
  
        "Go ahead, call them," the cheerleader shrugged. "You'll probably need them."  
  
        Pursing my lips at the insinuation, I threw my shoulders back and moved my eyes over to Kyle when he started speaking. "Screw that. She deserves whatever happens to her," he sneered. His dark brown eyes held my unwavering stare.  
  
        The blonde girl's black painted lips spread into a grin as she agreed with him. "Yeah, she's like those lonely, fat chicks that marry guys on Death Row." She rolled her head against the brick siding of the house to look at me from her seated position. "You're deeply, deeply disturbed," she stage whispered.  
  
        I couldn't help but think that was funny coming from someone who looked like she did. Normally I was never one to judge, especially just on appearances, but she looked like a girl who would be mentally disturbed in some way -- and I did have a little proof, given that she had contemplated drowning Tate. There was just this certain glint in her eyes, a certain distress spelled out across her features, that hinted at a disturbance somewhere within her. Every teenager there had to have had something wrong with them. Teenagers generally don't seriously consider how to end someone's life, and then follow them all the way back to wherever they're going. That was just messed up. It was bullshit.  
  
        But it dealt me the same question I'd had since it had all started: what happened? That was all I wanted to know. What happened between them and Tate? And I would have asked them about it, considering Tate didn't seem to remember, but I was more put out with the fact that they refused to get off my property. Lifting the knife slightly, an admittedly empty threat, I glared at all of them in turn and demanded, "All of you, take your disgusting made-up faces and go home, or I will go call the police right _now_ and have your asses arrested for trespassing."  
  
        "Made-up?" Kyle repeated in disbelief.  
  
        "I said _leave now_."  
  
        The cheerleader came around to look me in the eye. "Home? Where is that?" Her eyes turned sad. "I'm an only child. After what happened, my parents split up -- sold the house, moved away. No forwarding address." She blinked away the sheen of tears that glimmered in her eyes. "So I don't have a home," she finished.  
  
        I frowned at her. "Yeah, life sucks, princess, but I can't fix that for you," I snapped.  
  
        Usually I wouldn't have been so harsh. If this had been any other situation, I would have had sympathy for the girl standing in front of me, trying not to cry. Deep down, I did feel bad for her. I didn't know what happened, but it sounded like she was just the child of a divorce, bouncing between both homes. It was sad, I wasn't going to deny that, but I tried not to sympathize with those who threatened me.  
  
        "Can you fix this?" Kyle hissed, pointing towards his wound. "Can you give me back my scholarship to Georgia Tech?" He stepped forward slightly. "I'm supposed to be starting quarterback freshman year."  
  
        "She doesn't care," the brunette girl sighed, looking over at the jock. "She's in love, and she'll do anything for him, including giving him her virginity." She turned her attention back to me, obviously noticing how I had tensed. "Tonight was the night, wasn't it?"  
  
        "My virginity is none of your damn business," I asserted.  
  
        "Stupid slut," Kyle spat, talking over me. "She's worse than he is." All five of them got up to start circling me like vultures. "She thinks it's okay what he did to us."  
  
        My jaw clenched. I felt tears start to prick my eyes, but I blinked and willed them back, refusing to show any weakness. Having deemed myself a slut didn't make it any less painful for anyone else to call me that. However, I hadn't actually called myself that in weeks, having just come to terms with it. But the knowledge still had the power to sting.  
  
        Running his last sentence through my head, I realized this was my chance to find out what had happened. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I tentatively ventured, "And what, exactly, did he do to you?"  
  
        There was still that lingering doubt in my mind that perhaps it was best to be left in the dark. But at the same time, I _needed_ to know. I just wasn't sure if I really wanted to. There were some things that were probably better left unrevealed. I was afraid that this might be one of them. However, I was now as much a part of this as any of them, and I think I deserved to know why not only I was being threatened, but Tate's life was in potential jeopardy.  
  
        Realization dawned on the cheerleader's face. "She doesn't know," she whispered.  
  
        "No, I don't. What the hell happened?"  
  
        The boy with glasses and the messed up jaw stepped forward. He tried to talk, but all that came out was some garbled speech and dribbles of blood, which he quickly reached up to wipe away. The cheerleader stepped to his side and placed a hand on his arm, soothing him with a soft, "It's okay."  
  
        Giving me an incredulous look, Kyle questioned slowly, "Have you not heard about Westfield High?"  
  
        My first reaction was to shake my head, indication that I hadn't, but the name continued to bounce around in my head until something clicked. "My sister goes there . . . We just moved here, though, we don't know anything about the place," I fibbed. I didn't know if Violet knew anything or not, but I know I didn't. However, the thought that this had something to do with the high school that my baby sister attended was enough to stall my heart for a few beats.  
  
        "Pick up a yearbook, bitch," the goth spat, "or tell your sister to."  
  
        "Or read a newspaper," the cheerleader added in a kinder tone, but it was still bitter, instantly drawing my attention back to her. "We're kind of famous."  
  
        At this point I was growing tired of their games. They would throw something out, only to reel it back in when I reached for it. There was no point in them giving me these clues but not telling me what conclusion they were leading to. I hated being strung along like that. And I knew they weren't going to tell me. If they were, they would have done it already. So I didn't bother trying to pry more information from them.  
  
        "You're probably just popular and pissed off about something stupid," I scowled, saying the first thing that popped into my mind. "I don't know who any of you are, okay? Neither does Tate." I pinched my lips together. "Now get over yourselves, get the fuck off my property, and get a damn life -- _leave us alone_."  
  
        The punk girl glared daggers at me. "Let's put her down, out of her misery," she growled.  
  
        "Leave her alone!"  
  
        I turned at Tate's shout. He was standing in the open doorway, his hand extended towards me. I instantly slipped mine into it and moved beside him as the punk rocker sighed. "Finally, the Prodigal Son returns. Come on down, man. We've got some questions."  
  
        Tate glared at him before dipping his head down. "Go inside. I can handle this," he whispered into my ear. My eyes immediately shot to him in alarm -- there was no way I was leaving him alone with these guys.  
  
        His whisper had been louder than he probably thought. The cheerleader scoffed, "I seriously doubt that."  
  
        "Go inside!"  
  
        "No, Tate!" I argued, matching his volume and holding his hand tighter, glaring in defiance. "They want to hurt you, I'm not letting that happen!"  
  
        "Karma's a bitch, Tate," the gothic punk girl called.  
  
        Tate's eyes stared into mine for a couple of seconds. Swimming within the dark irises was a plethora of emotions. I couldn't separate and analyze each separate one. Not that I had time to do so anyway. I held his gaze firmly, my hand gripping his so hard I was vaguely surprised he wasn't registering any pain. My other hand held the knife with white knuckles. The situation was scaring the hell out of me. I didn't want anything to happen to Tate, and I didn't want anything to happen to me, because of the baby.  
  
        Finally Tate moved his eyes away from me and looked out at the group of teenagers. "You want to talk to me?" He let go of my hand, causing an instant spike in anxiety as I fumbled to grab it again, afraid of what he was going to do. "Let's see how fast you can run," he stated before taking off. His lean figure raced down the driveway faster than I would have guessed he was possible of going. Then again, adrenaline could make the body do amazing things.  
  
        "Tate!" I shouted as the others took off after him, the sound of soles slapping against the pavement deafening as they gradually disappeared down the street. "Tate!"  
  
        Tears built up once more as icy fear squeezed my heart. I was terrified for him. He was up against five other teenagers, five teenagers who had discussed on how they would kill him. Tate was fast, I just saw that firsthand, but he couldn't run forever. There was no telling what was going to happen if they caught him. I was afraid that they were going to kill him. Why didn't I just call the police when I had the chance?  
  
        As though a lightbulb went off above my head, I sprung into action. I whirled around to run inside so I could get my phone, only to shriek as I was met with Constance's glaring face. The knife slipped from my fingers and clattered to the porch as she grabbed me by the arm. "Come with me to my house now," she demanded, trying to pull me off my porch. My heels automatically dug into the ground as I resisted.  
  
        "Let go of me! I have to help Tate!"  
  
        "Addie is dead because of you!"  
  
        Her emotional roar snapped me into a state of dull submission. The words echoed through my mind. _'Addie is dead because of you.'_ Addie was dead. I had only seen her that afternoon. She had been vibrant and full of life, smiling and laughing . . . Now she was dead. I couldn't wrap my head around it. So much was going on tonight, my mind refused to process it all and instead focused on one thing at a time, and Addie's sudden passing had pushed Tate's dilemma to the side. It continued to rattle around my head while Constance dragged my slack body to her house.  
  
        Neither of us said a word while Constance put the kettle on for tea. I don't think either of us knew _what_ to say. What did you say to a woman who had just lost her child? 'Sorry' just didn't seem to be enough. Addie had been a sweet girl. Her passing had rendered me glum, and I couldn't even begin to guess how Constance felt right now. Bad neighbor or or not, bad  _person_  or not, she had to have loved her children more than a anything in the world, just like any other mother. And she said it had been my fault. That had really resonated within me.  
  
         _I_  was to blame for Adelaide Langdon's untimely demise. She had been struck by a car trying to cross the street, but it had been me who had done her makeup and encouraged her. It was my fault.  
  
        "She wanted to be a pretty girl," Constance sighed while I sat at her kitchen table, watching her mechanical movements as she sat across from me, making the tea and staring at the wall. "Of course, she didn't look so pretty lying on that table underneath those harsh, energy-efficient lights." She slid over a cup of tea to me, and I allowed my hands to curl around the china, feeling the heat. "One of the many comforts of having children is knowing one's youth has not fled, but merely been passed down to a new generation. They say when a parent dies, a child feels his own mortality." Taking a moment, she paused to blow on her tea, separating the steam as it rose from the tepid liquid. "But when a child dies, it's _im_ mortality that a parent loses."  
  
        Tears had collected in my eyes, and this time, I didn't bother trying to blink them out of existence. Her voice was thick and rough, and her eyes were rimmed in red. This paired with the simple pink robe and messy hair was enough to get to me. I had never seen Constance in anything less than formal attire, so seeing her in such a casual, disheveled state would have come as a shock to me, had she not just lost her daughter. God only knows what she was feeling. I wished there was something I could do to make her feel better, but . . . there just wasn't anything to fix this.  
  
        "Constance," I whispered, feeling a single tear slide down the curve of my cheek, "I'm -- I'm so sorry."  
  
        "Well, you did encourage her, that's true," Constance remarked in candor, pulling out a cigarette and holding it between her fingers, "but you were just trying to be kind, weren't you?" Lighting it, she took a drag and exhaled the smoke, shaking her head. "I was the one who sent her out into the world tonight. And it did what it will do." Her pained eyes slid over to me, and they softened. "Go ahead, drink your -- drink your tea, honey."  
  
        I glanced down at the tea and lifted the cup to my lips, taking a small sip, instantly recognizing the taste of chamomile.  _'_ _Chamomile soothes the soul.'_ Seemed like Constance believed the same thing. But it didn't seem so soothing now. Tea couldn't soothe the pain of losing someone. Nothing could. It would dull as time went on, but it would always be there.  
  
        "You know, Adelaide was a willful child," Constance continued, a nostalgic smile adorning her timeworn face, which appeared to have aged ten years since I last saw her. "I suppose if she inherited anything from me, it was that." She took another drag, and I discretely tried to turn away from the smoky exhale, not wanting to expose the baby to secondhand smoke. "In truth, I think my little monster was more like me than any of my other children."  
  
        Bringing my hand up to my nose, I rubbed it as though I had an itch, but really I was trying to keep from inhaling the toxic smoke. My brow furrowed when she mentioned other children. I hadn't known she even _had_ other children. It had been enough of a surprise to hear that Addie had actually been in her thirties, but I guess I never considered the fact that she possibly wasn't an only child, that she'd had siblings growing up. When I voiced this, admitting I hadn't been aware she'd mothered children other than Addie, the next four words out of her mouth shocked me to my very core.  
  
        "Tate is my son."  
  
        My eyes went wide as I stared at her in surprise. Out of all the things I expected to hear, that was not it. That didn't even make the list. Constance was Tate's mother. She was the grandmother of my baby. I couldn't wrap my mind around that, but I supposed it lent some explanation. It would certainly explain how Tate would find his way inside outside of his sessions. But I couldn't understand why he didn't tell me. With everything that had gone on between us, even before this date, I would have thought he would have mentioned something about living next door.  
  
        Now that I knew, however, I couldn't believe how I hadn't come to that conclusion myself. They looked alike. Her hair was more golden than his, but you could tell it ran in the same vein. And their eyes -- they had the same exact eyes. A brown so dark they could have passed as black. They even had the same face shape, square and angular, yet still soft. It was plain to see that they were related. I couldn't believe I had missed that. I didn't know _how_ I had missed that.  
  
        Constance took in a deep, unsteady breath. "He cannot know about this, Abigail. He cannot know that his sister has passed." She swallowed and averted her eyes to land on the swirling liquid inside her cup. "Not now. He doesn't . . . react well to certain things." Her reddened gaze lifted to look at me once more. "So you -- you have to promise me," she pleaded.  
  
        "I -- I don't understand . . ."  
  
        "He's a sensitive boy, Abigail. You've seen that. He's a young man with . . . too deep feelings, the heart of a poet. But none of the grit or steel that acts as a bulwark against this -- these horrors of this world. The steel that has protected me, that Adelaide possessed. And that -- that you have, too. I, uh, I think . . ." Constance trailed off, chuckling lightly, tears brimming her eyes as she looked at me. "I think that's why he's so taken with you. He craves your strength. Look." She leaned back and grabbed a picture frame, showing it to me. "Maybe he misses his sister. But we must protect him, Abigail."  
  
        My eyes locked onto the picture behind the glass. It was a photo of Addie and Tate. They were standing next to each other by a tree. Tate's arm was around his sister, and both were beaming like it had been the happiest day of their lives. Addie's eyes were scrunched up the way they did when she would laugh. I couldn't help but smile sadly at the photograph. It was hard to believe I would never be seeing that again. She would never sneak into the house again, I would never again be startled by her. It was just -- it was hard to comprehend that she was just . . . _gone_.  
  
        A series of flashing lights stole my attention. The red, white, and blue swirled around in a constant pattern, bouncing off the kitchen walls. I rose to my feet and peered out the window. A police car was sitting in my driveway behind my parents' vehicle -- they must have returned home shortly after Constance dragged me over here. My heart clenched in fear until two figures walked out the front door. One of them was the new security guard Luke. The other, much to my dismay, was Hayden.  
  
        A hand was placed delicately on my shoulder. I glanced over to see Constance standing slightly behind me, watching the scene with interest, but she peeked at me from the corner of her eye, and I knew she was at least somewhat aware of the situation. She was trying to comfort me. My heart clenched again, but it was not in fear this time, for I could see that my family was safe as they all stood on the porch, watching Luke guide Hayden into the back of his car before sliding behind the wheel. My heart clenched because this was a woman who had just lost her child, and yet she was extending a form of comfort out to me because my father and his mistress were causing more trouble. I rose a hand and laid it over hers.  
  
        In that moment, I felt as though an understanding formed a sort of connection between us, a kind of comradery that I never would have thought possible. I felt like the series of events that had taken place tonight had bonded and brought us closer together. And I felt, on a Halloween that offered more tricks than treats, that was exactly what we needed.

* * *

**I am pleasantly surprised at how easily this chapter came to me. However, I am not too sure if it sounds as well as I think it does. I think it turned out fairly decent, but as it came to me so easily, I feel that there is a catch somewhere, and it possibly sucks. I am so sorry if it does and I just don't see it at the moment. There is definitely a lot less narrative than there usually is, and a lot more dialogue, but I hope that's okay and it doesn't take away any from the story. I just felt that, with everything going on in this chapter, Abbie really wouldn't have had the time to just think about and analyze everything.**


	21. Kidney Bean

I twiddled my thumbs as I waited, my eyes wandering lazily around the room in search of something to entertain myself. It was a fairly inactive space with plain walls and nothing fun to do. Quiet, too. Only the turning of magazine pages, quiet conversations, the clicking of keyboard keys and occasional phone call from behind the station, and a few coughs here and there broke the monotony. Just like any other waiting room.  
  
        Only this one was different for me. It was the same one I had waited in to have my pregnancy confirmed. Now I was waiting there until I was called back for my first ultrasound. I was about eight weeks along now, according to the doctor anyway, and we should be able to pick up a heartbeat during. The thought had my stomach twisting from nerves. It was like I was afraid hearing my baby's heartbeat, seeing him for the first time in black and white, was going to make it too real for me to handle. Especially with the added stress of everything else that I already had to deal with.  
  
        Halloween had been the turning point for a lot of things. Mom had found out about Hayden being pregnant, and she finally kicked Ben out of the house. He still had to use it for his sessions, though, until he could find some way to afford to rent an office. It was quieter without Adelaide hanging around. Over the course of the week, I had found myself sitting on my bed and looking towards my mirror, imagining the last time I interacted with her. She had been so happy, so vibrant and full of life -- and then that light was snuffed out in the matter of a few hours. Constance and I had grown a little closer since that night. I had been over for tea a couple of times. But Addie was not the only one who was dead.  
  
        Tate was dead, too.  
  
        I hadn't believed it at first. Who would? It was insane! I had long since accepted the fact that there may be such a thing as ghosts, especially after what I experienced in my room and what I had learned about the house, but Tate was a phsyical being. He walked around and talked, and he was . . . _real_. I had hugged him, kissed him, felt him -- there was no way a ghost, or a spirit or whatever, could be that solid. It just wasn't possible.  
  
        Violet had been the one to tell me about him. The Monday after Halloween, she had returned home from school and pulled me aside, as frightened as she had been the say she'd lured Leah down into the basement. Even then I hadn't believed it. I'd thought she was just doing that to get back at me for whatever I had done to piss her off. But I couldn't keep the curiosity at bay.  
  
         _I paced back and forth, my arms folded over my chest. My laptop sat closed on my desk. So innocent, yet taunting. Every time I would walk past it, I would eye it, tempted to open it up. But at the same time, I was afraid of what I would find. I didn't believe Tate was dead, that was just ridiculous, but I couldn't shake the feeling that this was somehow connected to what those teenagers from Halloween were saying.  
  
        With an annoyed groan, I relented and collapsed into my desk chair, lifting the top of my laptop and pulling up _Google _. I typed_ 'Westfield High massacre' _into the search bar. Many different results popped up, all of them having to do with the event, but I scrolled down through the page, trying to prolong the inevitable. Finally I decided there was no use in putting it off any longer and clicked on a link leading to_ LA-Tribune _coverage of the tragedy. The page loaded seconds later, and I scrolled down slowly, my heart dropping at the images.  
  
        I was immediately met with the faces of the teenagers from the other night. All five of them had died from wounds identical to the ones I saw on their costumes. They were all there. Chloe Stapleton -- the cheerleader; Kyle Greenwell -- the jock; Stephanie Boggs -- the gothic-punk girl; Kevin Gedman -- the punk rocker; Amir Stanley -- the nerd. And they weren't the only ones. There were ten other faces categorized as victims of the tragic event. According to the article, the mass shooting had taken place seventeen years ago, in 1994.  
  
        Sinking my teeth into my lip, I closed out of that site and flicked through a couple more, seeing more of the same faces and the same date. But then I came to one which featured a different face. The article focused on the suspect. A seventeen year old boy who had attended Westfield High. My breath hitched in my throat as I found myself staring into the dark eyes I would know from anywhere. I moved my eyes from the photograph down to the name of the suspect, and my fears had been confirmed.  
  
        Tate Langdon.  
  
        _My right leg jumped up and down as I kept the left one crossed tightly over it. Per Dr. Kirkland's orders, I hadn't used the bathroom since I first woke up, and I had drank about four cups of water since then. I felt like I was literally about to burst. Groaning quietly, I leaned forward and rested my forehead on my folded arms, trying to take my mind off of the uncomfortable urge. The wait certainly felt much longer than it actually was when you were dealing with a full bladder. It didn't help that my urination was already becoming more frequent due to the pregnancy.  
  
        Beside me, Lana laid a hand on my back, rubbing gently. "It shouldn't be too much longer now," she soothed.  
  
        I just groaned again and shut my eyes, trying not to focus on the fact that I really, _really_ had to use the bathroom. Damn whoever discovered that a full bladder helped get a clearer image. Lana sighed and continued rubbing my back as my mind wandered. Violet had asked me to drive her to school yesterday, and after finding the articles on the massacre, I reluctantly agreed. She said there was some sort of plaque up in the library as a memorial to the fifteen who lost their lives. And, according to her, the teacher who had survived the assault was still there, but he had been paralyzed from the waist down by a bullet to the spine. I had figured he would be the one to go to for answers.  
  
         _Westfield High's library was huge compared to the one our school in Boston had. There were rows upon rows of shelved books, and multiple sitting areas where students could read or do homework, or even just hang out, so long as they were quiet and respected the library rules. Violet pointed me to a golden-plated plaque on the wall before disappearing into one of the aisles. The words_ 'IN MEMORY OF OUR FALLEN BROTHERS AND SISTERS' _were etched above a list of fifteen names,_ 'Presented by the Westfield High School Class Of 1994' _etched below the three columns. My eyes scanned over the names. I recognized every one of them from the articles I had found online.  
  
        "They were over by the sofa." The sudden voice caused my body to jolt in slight surprise, and I turned to see a man in a wheelchair, his face hard as he rolled up next to me. "Used to be a row of tables." He gestured towards the sitting area before looking back at me, waiting until I'd returned my confused gaze to him before continuing. "I get four or five of you sickos a year. Usually freshman." The man sighed in annoyance before then pursing his lips and looking me over. "What, are you a transfer?"  
  
        Blinking, I shook my head. "No, I uh, I'm actually not a student here. My sister's a sophomore . . ." My eyes squinted slightly as I trailed off before widening in recognition. "You're that teacher," I stated plainly.  
  
        He bid me a wry smile and started to roll off in the other direction. It was then I realized I'd been kind of rude. In a way, that man was like a hero, but that didn't mean he liked talking about it. He probably got asked about the incident a hundred times a day by students. The last thing he needed was the older sister of a student coming in to interrogate him about that day. But I just _had _to know, I had to get my questions answered. I had come this far already. There was no use in giving up now.  
  
        "Wait, please," I called as I jogged after him, stopping as he came behind the main desk, where the name plaque for a George Carmichael sat. "I'm sorry, I know you must get this every day, but . . . I'm really not like those other kids, Mr. Carmichael." He huffed out a sarcastic laugh and continued to straighten out something behind the checkout counter. "No, really. I -- I know Tate. His mom," I quickly corrected. "I know his mom. We live next door to her. I just -- I just want to know . . ." I took a deep breath. "Did you -- did you know him, before he did this?"  
  
        Mr. Carmichael sighed and set aside whatever it was that he was doing. His solemn eyes peered up at me. "I knew his face. Didn't seem like a bad kid, actually. He was in here a lot. Kind of thoughtful, liked to read. Byron, books on birds, random stuff," he provided.  
  
        That news was a little surprising. I hadn't pegged Tate as a reader. A memory from one of our first encounters flashed through my mind. When Tate knocked _'Gone with the Wind' _and called it shit. Well, he referred to it as_ 'this shit.' _Yet he was a reader himself, and an avid one by the sound of it. He liked Byron. I was a fan of Lord Byron's as well._ 'She Walks in Beauty' _was my favorite poem of his. So I could definitely understand and appreciate why he enjoyed his works, but I just couldn't see Tate hunkered down with one of his poems, his dark eyes glued to the page as he took in every word. It just didn't seem like the Tate that I knew.  
  
        Then again, how much did I really know about him? While I had known very little beforehand, now I felt like I knew absolutely nothing about the boy who very quickly clawed his way into my heart and nested there.  
  
        "Was he bullied or something?" I ventured. "Did he even _know _the kids he shot? I'm sorry for bothering you, but I just -- I just want to know why he did it."  
  
        "Yeah. Me, too."  
  
        Mr. Carmichael wheeled himself out from behind the desk and started across the library. His vague answers, while I told myself I understood the reason behind them, were beginning to frustrate me. Frowning, I chased after him. "Please, Mr. Carmichael, just give me _something _," I begged.  
  
        He stopped and wheeled around to face me. "Kid, if the bullet had been an inch to the right, it would've missed my spine, and I would have walked out of here. Might have been able to stop him. An inch higher, it would have killed me. Sometimes shit just happens."  
  
        "Good people don't have a bad day and just up and decide to shoot up a school."  
  
        "Yeah, well, maybe he wasn't such a good person then."  
  
        _Across the room, a woman leaned over to get a drink at the water fountain, her lips pursed as she placed them over the steady stream. The sound of running water against the metal brought my current situation back into the forefront of my mind. I gritted my teeth and threw my head back against the wall. Marion absentmindedly turned the page of her magazine and rested a comforting hand on my jiggling leg. All I could do was bite back a curse as I was reminded that Lana had left the room momentarily to void her own bladder. I probably shouldn't have been irritated at that, as it was a normal bodily function that increased with age and my having to suffer didn't mean she had to, but I was. The fact that she had the freedom to take care of herself made me want to scream.  
  
        The best I could do was shoot the older woman a dark look when she returned. It was an acceptable gesture compared to the string of profanities I felt the urge to spit at her. Or at anyone, really -- I wasn't feeling terribly stingy at the moment, so everyone was at equal risk.  
  
        "Abigail Harmon?"  
  
        Never had I been so relieved to hear my name called in a doctor's office. My hand instantly shot up into the air. "Right here," I announced. I eagerly shoved myself out of my chair and made my way over to the nurse when she asked me to follow her. Lana and Marion trailed along behind us as we went through the door that separated the waiting room from the examination rooms.  
  
        We were led to a room towards the end of the ball. It was a typical examination room with the single addition of an ultrasound machine. The nurse went about checking my vitals and asking me the standard questions before informing us that Dr. Kirkland would be in to see me. She requested that she also take on the part of my sonographer as a favor to Lana, who had apparently confided in her that she'd be more comfortable with her taking care of pretty much everything concerning my pregnancy, which stemmed from her understandable distrust when it came to doctors. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to contain my impatience that stemmed from my current frustration.  
  
        My eyes lowered to look at my stomach. As they did, I couldn't help but to recall the last time I had seen Tate, which had been Sunday. He'd had me so worried when I hadn't heard from him after Halloween, and when I'd asked Constance of his whereabouts, she'd told me he had gone out. I hadn't been sure whether I should be worried about or angry with him. He had stayed on mind all through Saturday and into Sunday. Then he finally decided to come around for a visit.  
  
         _Tate had been running through my mind all day. I couldn't help but to worry about what those kids might have done to him. Every possible scenario I could imagine just kept replaying over and over. Constance had said he'd returned not long after I had gone back home, but she refused to divulge any information on his wellbeing; she wouldn't even tell me where he had gone or what time she was expecting him back. With what happened on Halloween, when something like that went down, the proper thing to do was let the other person know that you were all right. That was all I wanted.  
  
        I had jumped into the shower after coming home from a double shift, only available because someone had called in and the spot needed to be filled, at _Cafecito Organico _. Working in a place that practically specialized in coffee when I'd acquired an irritating aversion towards it had proved to be incredibly stressful. It seemed like every half hour had me racing to the restrooms so I could kneel in front of a porcelain bowl. And Eva had taken off after her shift, leaving me to find a good balance between working and trying to evade Jeanine whenever it became too much for me, and therefore warranted yet_ another _trip to the bathroom. I was lucky our manager was so unobservant or too focused on other things to notice my frequent absences from behind the counter. I was also lucky that I had coworkers who, even though they didn't know why, were willing to cover for me when I needed it so long as I picked up the slack when I came back out.  
  
        When I exited my bathroom, I had been too lost in thought to notice the extra presence, and I just wandered over to my mirror to continue brushing my hair. But after a couple of strokes my focus shifted. My heart skipped a beat as Tate stood up from the edge of my bed. I slowly set the brush down and turned to face him. He didn't appear to have any physical injuries that I could see, but there was a certain gleam in his eye, a wariness I hadn't seen from him before.  
  
        Tate watched me with apprehension as I took a few steps towards him. He had good reason to feel that way. I was sure my expression wasn't of much comfort to him concerning how I might react. In fact, even _I _wasn't positive how I was about to react. As he didn't reach out to me yesterday, and I hadn't seen him all day today until now, I was not certain whether I should be happy he appeared to be okay or angry that he'd had me worried and didn't bother letting me know he was all right.  
  
        I came to a stop a couple inches away from him. Neither of us said a word. He was watching me warily, anticipating my next actions, and I was busy trying to sort out my feelings about him finally coming around after two days. Was I relieved that he didn't seem to be hurt? Yes, of course I was. Was I mad that he had left me worrying for two whole days, had left me not knowing if anything had happened to him? Damn right I was.  
  
        "I was worried about you," I finally stated, my voice flat and somewhat strained with the effort it took for me to not raise my voice, as he had obviously snuck in through the window and I didn't want to alert anyone. "The least you could have done was let me know if you were all right."  
  
        He swallowed and nodded his head. "Well, I am."  
  
        My eyes slitted at his nonchalance regarding the subject. Here I'd been worried sick about him, and not only could he not take the time to let me know if he was okay, but he had the nerve to act like the whole situation had been nothing. Like he didn't even care I had hardly slept because I couldn't stop wondering if something had happened to him. That was what pissed me off the most. He didn't even seem to care. I went off of him, struggling to keep my voice at a level low enough to prevent my parents from hearing, but I think it was raised just enough to get my point across.  
  
        "How could I have known that, Tate?! I haven't seen you since those kids chased you down the street! I have been worried sick about you! They wanted to _kill _you, Tate! Do you not understand that?! Do you not understand how scared I was?! I was terrified, and you didn't even have the common decency to walk the thirteen feet from your house to let me know that you were okay! You could have_ died _for all that I knew! You could have --"❄  
  
        ate cut me off the moment my eyes began to burn with tears and the emotion choked up my words. He lunged forward and gathered me in his arms. His hand cradled the back of my head. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. I'm fine, I promise. I'm sorry, it's okay. I'm okay." he soothed in a hushed voice. I took in a deep breath to compose myself as I held him back, burying my face into his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the side of my head.  
  
        "I was so scared for you, Tate," I whispered, clutching him tighter, as though I needed to reassure myself that he was there. "If something had happened to you, if they would have . . . I don't know what I would've done."  
  
        He tightened his hold on me. "I'm not going anywhere, Abbie."  
  
        _The door opened to reveal a woman with chest-length, naturally red hair. She greeted Lana and Marion amiably before turning to me with a polite smile as she asked me the general question of how I was feeling. Whether or not it was for medical reasons or if she was just being amicable, I wasn't completely sure, but my response would have been the same either way. "Aside from being seconds away from my bladder literally bursting, I'm just fine. Now can we get this over with so I can go pee?"  
  
        Dr. Kirkland laughed at my impatience. "We most certainly can. Just lie back on the table and lift your dress for me please," she requested as she set about preparing everything. I did as she asked and reclined, grabbing the hem of my dress and lifting it to my ribs, and I also pulled my leggings down about an inch just to ensure enough of my stomach was exposed.  
  
        Lana and Marion stood to come by my side as the blue gel was squirted onto my abdomen. I squirmed a little at the cold temperature. Dr. Kirkland talked us through what she was doing as she was doing it. The first thing she was after was to see if she could pick up the baby's heartbeat. She held the Doppler to the sufficiently gelled area and moved it around until the white noise was interrupted with periodical thumps. About three of them would come through every second. My own heart skipped a beat.  
  
        "And here is your baby."  
  
        Dr. Kirkland turned the machine around so we could see the screen. My eyes locked onto the black and white image as she pointed out four small blobs that extended off of the tiny kidney bean-like figure. Those were the arms and legs forming. She informed us that the baby looked to be developing at a slightly quicker rate, but otherwise was in good health with no signs of any defects or abnormalities.  
  
        I felt my eyes water as I studied the sonogram and listened to the rhythmic beating of its heart. That was my baby. There was a tiny person living inside of me, and I was finally looking at him for the first time. My lips spread into a smile as a teardrop rolled its way down the curve of my cheek. Lana and Marion gripped my hand in theirs, tears glimmering in their own eyes.  
  
        "He's beautiful," Marion awed.  
  
        "Look at that," Lana wondered. "There he is, there's your baby."  
  
        A happy sob ripped its way out of me as I continued to stare at the screen. My baby. That was  _my baby_. Ever since I had figured out I was pregnant, I had been terrified. There were so many unknowns to think about and the question of how I was going to raise a child. But all of that went out of my head the second I heard the heartbeat. I knew then that everything was going to be okay. I was going to be able to raise him, and I wasn't going to have to do it alone.  
  
        "My baby," I whispered.  
  
         _The car fell silent as I pulled the key out of the ignition. A lump had long since formed in my throat, and my mouth had run dry ages ago. This was something I couldn't wrap my mind around. There was no way he was dead. It wasn't him who executed the shooting, it couldn't have been him. It was someone else, or it was all just some horrible prank. Maybe Violet had orchestrated the whole thing as a form of revenge for whatever it was I had inadvertently done to her.  
  
        A sharp rapping tore me out of my troubled thoughts with a restrained yelp. I blew out a sigh of relief when I saw it was only Constance and opened my door. Before I could even step all the way out, the older woman spoke, "You found out about Tate, didn't you? I knew you would."  
  
        I stared at her, not responding, not knowing _how _to respond. She offered a sympathetic smile.  
  
        "I questioned my sanity when I first found out. But the house will -- it will make you a believer. You see, Abigail, we were living in there when Tate lost his way. And I believe that the house drove him to it. Now, Abigail, you're a smart girl. Surely you're not so arrogant to think that there's only one reality you're able to see, right?"  
  
        Swallowing past the lump, I forced my head to nod. Of course I wasn't so close-minded that I didn't consider the idea of other planes. I had experienced some things in that house that just can't be explained away by logic and rationalization. But accepting that there were other planes and accepting that someone you know, someone you had felt in every way, was actually a member of another plane were two very different scenarios.  
  
        Constance offered a tight-lipped smile and placed a hand on my arm. "Good. Now come along, there's someone I want you to meet." She lightly tugged on my wrist and coaxed me to follow her. When we entered her house, there was an unfamiliar woman sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. "Abigail Harmon, meet Billie Dean Howard," she introduced. The woman gave me an uninterested once over.  
  
        I lingered by the door, my eyes taking in her appearance. She looked like she might have been somewhere in her mid- to late-thirties. Her hair was a golden blonde and hung past her shoulders in practiced curls. She had calculating brown eyes that had obviously already judged me as they flicked away when she raised the cigarette to her full lips to inhale the addictive toxins.  
  
        Pressing my lips together, I lifted my hand in a halfhearted wave, uttering a quiet greeting. Constance sighed and apologized on behalf before guiding me to sit next to the woman. "Now, Abigail, Billie is a gifted medium. She can help," the weathered woman told me, her hands resting on my shoulders for a brief second. She squeezed them lightly before gliding gracefully to the stove.  
  
        "You're confused. Overwhelmed," Billie stated immediately, her dark gaze focusing on me. "Why wouldn't you be?"  
  
        "Billie has been helping me for years, I first found her on Craigslist," Constance explained. "I've been through all the phonies, but she is 100% authentic, believe me."  
  
        Billie smiled at the compliment. "I've just come from a meeting; they're interested in making a pilot with me," she boasted.  
  
        "Congratulations," I mumbled.  
  
        Constance requested that I have some tea as she gently set the cup in front of me. Once again, it was chamomile, and this time she even insisted it would 'calm the nerves.' I accepted the hot drink and wrapped my hands around the ceramic. It was probably blatantly obvious how uncomfortable I was. Constance had brought in a Craigslist medium to help me. Whatever that meant. But I was still in denial about the whole situation, and I think Billie could sense that.  
  
        "I used to be like you, until I was twenty-five, when out of the blue my cleaning lady shows up as I'm brushing my teeth. Except she's got no toilet brush and rubber gloves; she's naked and bloody. Her husband murdered her with an ice pick. Now, do you think I wanted a bloody Mexican ghost in my bathroom? All I wanted was to improve my tennis game and unseat Charlotte Whitney as president of my book club. But I was chosen. No one asks for it, but nothing can be done once one's been chosen. So when you're chosen, you either get with the program, or you go crazy. Understanding the truth is your only choice, Abigail."  
  
        I looked at her. "And what's that?"  
  
        Billie sighed and flicked her ashes into the glass tray. "There are some who have an understandably violent and vengeful reaction to being horribly murdered. They refuse to move on, until they exact their pound of flesh." She watched me carefully as my breathing visibly and audibly hitched; my mind wandered back to the group of teenagers. "Then there are a very few souls, like Tate, who don't even know they're dead, who walk among the living in child-like confusion," she stated. I slowly took a sip of tea, eager to wet my dry mouth, her words running through my mind.  
  
        All five of those teenagers, all of whom had apparently been killed in the massacre, had been out for revenge. They had been looking for Tate specifically. But Tate had claimed not to know who they were. If Tate really _was _dead, and he just didn't realize it, could that affect his memory of the events leading up to his final moments? That was a thought I quickly dismissed as I repeated to myself that Tate was not dead, that him being dead was physically impossible.  
  
        "That's why I wanted him to see your father," Constance interjected. "I was hoping your father might help him achieve some clarity about himself so that he could see the truth on his own."  
  
        Reaching out and laying a hand over my own, Billie concluded, "We must help him cross over, Abigail."  
  
        I yanked my hand away. "No. This is a bunch of bullshit. Tate is _not _dead. This is all just some -- just some . . . sick joke. Well, ha ha, very funny, but it's over, I'm not buying it," I spat. I shoved my chair back and stood up, but before I could go anywhere, Constance's hand darted out and wrapped around my forearm.  
  
        "This is no joke, young lady, now sit back down," she ordered, waiting until I had reluctantly done so to continue. "You know it's true, Abigail. You have seen enough in that house to know something about my son is not normal."  
  
        "Nothing about that damn house is _normal _, Constance, but saying that your own son is dead . . ."  
  
        It was all messed up. I couldn't believe any of it. And I was bound and determined to prove them both wrong. But they were adamant that they were speaking the truth. Neither of them budged. I gradually found myself growing more frustrated that they were keeping with their story. Yet, at the same time, I was growing frustrated because I was finding less and less reason to argue my point. There was only one argument I had left.  
  
        And that came to light when Billie had questioned me why I was so against the idea of Tate being a ghost, or whatever, when I readily accepted everything else.  
  
        "Because I'm pregnant!" I shouted, slamming my hand on the table. Both Constance and Billie stared at me, their eyes wide in shock. I swallowed and lowered my eyes to rest on the tea that still sat in front of me. "I'm pregnant, and he's the father."  
  
        _As I gazed at the colorless image of my and Tate's baby, I thought back to Constance's reaction. She had been excited once the shock had worn off. Her eyes lit up with a certain joy at the thought of what she claimed to be her first grandchild. But she had also agreed to keep it to herself. I had explained how only a couple people knew, and that neither Tate nor my parents and sister were included in that, and how I was just waiting for the right time to tell everyone. She was also pleased to hear that she was technically the first grandmother to find out.  
  
        I made a mental note to show her the image when I returned home.  
  
        Our attention was diverted to the door when it opened to reveal another doctor. He peeked in and dished out a quick apology before saying, "Corrine, they need you at the front desk immediately. They sent me to take over while you go do that."  
  
        Dr. Kirkland uttered a few choice words under her breath before introducing him as Dr. Ralph Hamilton and leaving us in his hands. He was apparently an actual ultrasound technician, as in that was more or less what he specialized in, and he generally didn't take on any other patients that weren't expecting. As he chatted with us, I found him to be very friendly, and with his light hair and striking eyes, he wasn't a bad-looking man.  
  
        When Dr. Hamilton moved the machine back around to face him, his face suddenly drained of all color. His eyes went wide in what looked to be pure horror. "Oh my God," he muttered. My heart faltered for a few beats. Dr. Kirkland had said nothing was wrong with the baby -- what if he found something that she had missed?  
  
        "What? What is it?" I fretted, my hand gripping Lana and Marion's as fear went through me. "Is there something wrong with  -- is there something wrong with my baby?"  
  
        Lana and Marion fired questions at him when he didn't respond. I felt myself slipping into something akin to an anxiety attack, slowly slipping into a panic mode at the thought of something being seriously wrong with my baby. Dr. Hamilton finally moved his eyes away from the screen and looked at me, the pure fear on his expression clear even through the mist of thick tears that had accumulated. He only uttered a couple of unintelligible syllables before his eyes rolled back in his head and he crashed to the floor.  
  
        All the while the other doctors rushed in to tend to him, there was only one thing on my mind: what did he see in my ultrasound that was so horrific he collapsed? _What did he see?_

* * *

**Things are really starting to go downhill for Abbie now. She knows that not only is Tate dead, but that he was responsible for the deaths of fifteen people, and not only did she see her baby for the first time and hear his heartbeat, the ultrasound technician saw something on there that scared him so much he fainted. That would be enough to scare any expecting mother who hadn't created the baby with a homocidal ghost. And Constance knows! Surely this can't be a recipe for disaster, right? ;)**   
  
**This chapter probably wasn't as well written as it neared the end, and I do apologize for that. On a side note, I do currently have other stories in the works for various fandoms, as well as another one for _American Horror Story_  that I have been working on, so I have been trying to balance my time between those as inspiration hits. There may be some delays in updates due to this, but I will do my best to keep this one going in a timely manner, especially now since things are just starting to heat up.**

**A/N: The title for this chapter comes from the size and shape of the baby. At eight weeks, the fetus is supposed to resemble a kidney bean, and it is supposed to be around the size of one too.**


	22. Little Red Man

I paced across the kitchen linoleum, treading a path between the island and the counters. My teeth sunk into my bottom lip in thought. In my hand was my cell phone, tapping it lightly against the opposite palm. The options were bouncing around in my mind. Either I called and asked, or I didn't and left it unanswered. The second choice was unacceptable to me. An answer needed to be granted. It would drive me insane until I knew.  
  
        Propping myself up against the island, I scrolled down through my contacts, selecting the desired name when I came upon it. I lifted the device up to my ear and listened to it ring before a cordial voice came through the other line. _"HealthCare Partners Los Angeles, how may I help you?"_ It sounded like the same medical receptionist that had been at the office Wednesday. Hopefully that would make this a little easier. However, the generic line had my eyes rolling in their sockets.  
  
        "Hi, I'm looking for a Dr. Ralph Hamilton? I need to ask him a few questions regarding my appointment this past Wednesday."  
  
         _"I'm sorry, but Dr. Hamilton no longer works at this office. Is this a medical issue that can be transferred to another doctor?"  
  
        _I began fiddling with my necklace, turning the golden circle over and over with my fingers, and bit my lips. He was the only one I could turn to for the answer. If I couldn't ask him, I was going to be driven crazy by my desire -- my _need_ \-- to know. The fact that he no longer worked at the office, which I took to mean that he had just quit, was worrisome. What was so horrible that he saw in my ultrasound that had prompted him to quit his job? It must have been something horrific. Doctors see a lot of things in their job. If something had made him quit . . .  
  
        This was why I needed to get ahold of him. Only he could tell me what he had seen. Dr. Kirkland hadn't seen anything, but _he_ had. I needed to know what it was.  
  
        Not letting myself give up, I persisted. "No, I need Dr. Hamilton specifically, it's important. Is there any way you could reach him and have him call me? The name's Abigail Harmon." The woman on the other end sighed and went silent for a moment before agreeing and asking for my number. I gratefully rattled it off to her.  
  
        A purposeful rapping at the back door caught my attention. As I thanked the medical receptionist, I leaned slightly to the side to peer out the wood-surrounded glass. The youthful yet timeworn face of my next door neighbor greeted me with a genuine smile. It was an expression I had been getting for the past few days, and it was an expression that I had yet to grow used to. Until the other day, the only smiles I had seen from her were forced and either polite or condescending. To see one that wasn't faked was still a little strange for me.  
  
        I ended the call, knowing there was no more I could do until Dr. Hamilton contacted me, and opened the door with a slightly confused greeting. Constance stepped forward and presented to me a covered dish. "I was thinking about how you said you were feeling nauseated yesterday, and my mother always said that a big platter of offal helped with that, so I took the liberty of providing you with some pork, just like she preferred," she explained. She lifted the lid, and I was met with various meat parts. The smell instantly hit my nose, causing my stomach to churn.  
  
        Constance had been good about not telling anyone. When she had dropped by yesterday shortly after I'd returned from work, she had questioned me about how I was feeling, but she had avoided any terms that could have tipped someone off to my condition. Unfortunately I'd been suffering from morning sickness pretty much all day, and she had been there to witness me purging my stomach's contents. But she had also been there to hold my hair out of the way. It made me consider the idea that telling her maybe hadn't been a mistake even if telling her  _had_  been a mistake as I truly hadn't meant to do so.  
  
        "Now these two are thymus glands -- one from the heart, one from the throat." She pointed to each part in turn. "It's so good for your current condition. Full of protein, vitamin C, all the B vitamins, and iron."  
  
        I grimaced at the repulsive smell emitting from the raw offal. The sight of it wasn't helping much either. It looked absolutely disgusting. There was no way I'd be able to eat any of even after it was cooked. Gently pushing the dish back towards her, I said, "Constance, thanks for the consideration, but I can't eat that. Just looking at it is making me queasy."  
  
        She waved a tired hand. "Nonsense, child. It will be good for you in the long run. Moira," she called, causing me to look towards the doorway in confusion, where I spotted the elderly housekeeper. "Why don't you sauté these for Miss Harmon's lunch? Do 'em the way that you used to do them for me. Remember? With sweet butter," she added. My eyes cut back to Constance with slightly elevated brows. I had known there had been a history between the two, but I hadn't known that Moira had worked for her, which was what I gathered from her statement.  
  
        Moira nodded her head and diligently took the covered dish. "I'd be happy to do that for Miss Harmon." She maneuvered around me to reach the stove. I protested as she began pulling out the proper cookware, but my words fell on deaf ears, Constance's own insistence overpowering them.  
  
        Lyrics carried out in Joan Jett's voice interrupted whatever it was that the older woman was saying. Offering up a quick apology, I glanced at the lit up screen, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar number. Normally I didn't answer to unknown numbers. My theory was that if it was important, or if I did know who it was and just didn't have the number, they would leave a message and I would get back to them if I needed to. However, something told me that even though I didn't recognize this number, I needed to answer. Something told me it was imperative that I accepted this call. So I apologized again and went into the foyer before picking up.  
  
        To say I was surprised to hear Leah's voice come through the speaker would be an understatement. The senior had more or less fallen off my radar following our previous encounter. Violet hadn't mentioned her, she hadn't reached out to me -- she hadn't even so much as crossed my mind. It was like she had fallen off the face of the earth since the last time we had talked. I might as well have forgotten she'd even existed. So it was surprising still when she asked to talk with me. About what, I wasn't entirely sure, but just as something had told me to answer her call, something told me to listen to what she had to say. So I agreed to meet up with her at some park near the abandoned pool we had talked at the last time.  
  
        Constance wasn't too pleased when I announced I had to step out for a while. It took a bit of arguing and convincing before I had successfully shooed her out the back door. Moira set aside the offal and kindly informed me it would be there for when I returned. I cringed at the thought of actually eating it, but I thanked her anyway and made a quick exit, desperate to be away from everything in that house. Even just my car that was parked in the driveway provided a little solace from the nightmare I experienced behind closed doors. The comforting relief of being away from the grand structure only increased the more distance that was put between the property and me as my destination grew closer.  
  
        Leah was waiting for me when I pulled into the parking lot. She didn't make any move other than lift her head at the gravel crunching underneath my tires, but I instantly recognized her from the two previous encounters. It would have been hard not to considering she was wearing the same sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat. Her hair was still lifeless and adorned a single streak of white. A square of gauze still covered the scratches marring a section of her left cheek. Held between her fingers was a partially smoked cigarette, which she brought up to her lips, watching me get out of my car.  
  
        We chose a place by the small pond. After exchanging our greetings, it was pretty much silent between us, only the occasional murmur breaking the monotony. As we sat on the bench, mindlessly observing others walking around and enjoying the fresh air, it occurred to me that Leah had never gotten an apology. She had been brought into my house and had been assaulted, and she probably never even heard regret expressed for it. At least she hadn't heard it from me.  
  
        It was that thought which prompted me to break the silence. "I . . . owe you an apology, Leah."  
  
        Her head turned towards me. Even though I couldn't see her eyes, I felt as though they were scrutinizing me from behind the tinted lenses; the distinct feeling made me a little uncomfortable. Finally she nodded and, with a knowing tone, said, "It attacked you, too, didn't it?"  
  
        "No. I just realized that I never apologized for what happened that day, so . . . I'm sorry I didn't stop it," I stated before looking out across the pond. "I shouldn't have let it happen."  
  
        "It's not your fault," she sighed. "I shouldn't have been stupid enough to believe your sister had drugs for me. Plus her story was completely ridiculous, talking about showing her boobs to some lobster trappers for coke; it was bullshit." She shook her head with a derisive scoff as I grimaced at the mere thought of Violet doing something so degrading; her lips pinched together as she continued to look in my direction. "Something happened to you in that house."  
  
        It was my turn to scoff. "A lot of shit happened to me in that house."  
  
        I didn't particularly wish to go into detail. So much had happened to me since moving into the infamous Murder House. A lot of it defied logic and just didn't make so much sense. But that didn't make any of it less real. Sometimes I did feel as though I were just losing my mind, and everything that I had experienced had just been figments of imagination and all just in my head, but at the end of the day, I knew my sanity hadn't slipped that much yet. Everything I'd experienced had actually happened. The thought wasn't comforting, but it was the truth.  
  
        "Like what?" the former bully probed.  
  
        "It doesn't matter," I shot down before sighing, "but sometimes I don't know what's real anymore, like I'm losing my mind or something."  
  
        Leah suddenly leaned forward and whipped off her sunglasses, staring me full in the face with the most serious of expressions. "The Devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favorite." Her brief sermon stunned me into silent thought. "Have you read the _Book of Revelation_?" When I shook my head, she released a heavy sigh and launched into an explanation. "In Heaven, there's this woman in labor, howling in pain. And there's a red dragon with seven heads waiting so he can eat her baby. But the Archangel Michael, he hurls the dragon down to Earth. From that moment on, the red dragon hates the woman, and declares war on her and all of her children. That's us," she concluded.  
  
        I ran her words through my brain over and over until I could make some sense of them. She was still stuck on the Devil, and I believed that _she_ truly believed that it had been the Devil to attack her that day in the basement. And who was I to say that wasn't true? I certainly had no idea what that creature had been, and it had certainly had a demonic appearance to it. It had looked like it had crawled right out of a horror movie. But it was ultimately her description of the Devil that had caught my attention. When she had first brought it up to me, I had questioned whether or not _Tate_ was the Devil. Her sermon had resurfaced that very same question.  
  
         _He can be beautiful._ That made sense. If the Devil were real and walking among us, he would almost have to be aesthetically pleasing in order to blend in with society until he accomplished whatever it was he had set out to do. Being attractive would make it easier for him to manipulate us. Tate was good at manipulation. He'd nearly manipulated me until I'd managed to call his bullshit. And he was not among the living, at least not physically. He was dead. He was dead because the SWAT team had gunned him down after he killed fifteen of his peers.  
  
        The premise haunted me. As insane as it sounded, it made some sense, and I might have been quicker to believe it had I been certain of my faith. But I could not deny that it was not as crazy as it sounded.  
  
        Our discussion carried on for just a little longer before we had to part ways. She had confided in me that she couldn't eat and, much like me, was having trouble sleeping. However, whereas I just fought through it, she took sleeping pills, which helped her get four hours in if she was lucky. Sleeping pills actually didn't seem like too bad of an idea, but I wasn't about to use anything over the counter without a doctor's go-ahead first; I had my baby to consider. Everything I put into my body was streamed into him as well.  
  
        The driveway was void of any vehicles when I pulled back up to the house. Mom had gone ot to run errands before Constance had come over, so I wasn't too worried that she wasn't there, but Ben had been seeing a patient. Obviously the session had ended while I was out, but I was a little surprised that he hadn't stuck around after, especially since my leaving had left only Violet in the house. Moira should have been the only other person there to watch her had she been younger or less mature and required supervision. Ben was usually reluctant to return to his rented apartment after his office hours had ended for the day. Normally Mom had to throw him out -- again -- to get him to leave. So to see him gone so soon after his last session had ended was a little out of the ordinary.  
  
        Everything seemed a little out of the ordinary, though, here lately. So what did I know? Maybe this was our new normal. If 'normal' was even a term that could be applied to the Harmon family anymore. We were probably so far past normal at this point that we were the first in line to be committed into a state hospital. And even that would be the most activity we'd done together as a family since the move.  
  
        The house seemed quieter than usual when I closed the door behind me. Almost eerily so. My body tensed up at the increasingly creepy atmosphere. It had the same feel of that one scene in every horror movie where the music cuts off and everything goes silent and still before the antagonist makes itself known in a cheap jumpscare that had still gotten you despite you having anticipated it. The feeling definitely put me on edge. So much so, actually, that I lingered by the door for much longer than was necessary, trying to locate the origin of the worringly eerie atmosphere. I was admittedly a little afraid to continue on into the foyer in fear of something happening -- something  _was_  about to happen, I could feel it, and everything I knew about this property told me it wasn't going to be pleasant for me to experience.  
  
        Hearing the stairs groan under an invisible weight sharpened my awareness. My eyes followed a path created by the distinct sound of footsteps as they descended the staircase. When they fell silent upon reaching the bottom, I got the distinct sensation of being watched, and as I refused to avert my gaze, it was as though I was currently staring something down that was staring right back at me. My heart was pounding. I wanted to run. I wanted to turn around, leave out the front door, and never return. But instead, I swallowed down my trepidation and lifted my chin in defiance, keeping my focus fixed on whatever was loitering at the bottom of the stairs.  
  
        Finally they began moving again. Like whoever it was had just been waiting to make sure they had my attention. They stepped around the staircase, and the basement door swung open, the footsteps continuing on down those steps. Apprehension trickled back into my veins as I stared at the open door leading down to the bowels of the house. Every tip I'd picked up from films concerning the paranormal screamed at me to just leave while I still had the chance. My self-preservation instincts shouted for me to just let it go, and maybe close and lock the door so I wouldn't be tempted later on, but mostly to just get out of there before I did something stupid. My curiosity, however, was encouraging me to do the opposite, and it was urging me to figure out what the house -- or its permanent residency -- was trying to tell me.  
  
        A logical person might have debated which route to take regarding this choice. They might have weighed the pros and cons of each option before taking action. I used to pride myself on being logical, for being able to rationalize just about anything, but that characteristic had been beaten out of me little by little until I was left not knowing what was real and what wasn't anymore. Logic no longer had a significant role in my day to day life. It seemed as though every hour brought about something that couldn't be explained through simple rationalization. So I did not even consider taking the more logical approach to the situation at hand. Instead I charged forward blindly to satiate my precarious curiosity.  
  
        The old steps groaned beneath my feet as I descended into the natural darkness. My mind was torn between berating my foolishness and applauding my courage. When I reached the bottom, I looked around, sweeping my gaze over the main area in search of something that would lead me to whatever it was I was after. It was the same as it was the last three times I had been down there. It was still cloaked in shadow and had the distinct feeling of eyes trained on your every move. Some things just never changed. Unfortunately, those were always the things that _should_.  
  
        The air around me was charged. It wasn't as though I felt surrounded or threatened, but the feeling did have me on edge, as though it was just another warning that something was coming. There was a certain presence near me. I couldn't pinpoint where it was, or how close it was to me, but I could tell someone was currently sharing the space with me. And I recognized the presence. It held a familiar aura. It was one I had been around many times.  
  
        While that should have consoled me, or at least put me more at ease, I wasn't feeling too comfortable at the moment. My skin prickled in anticipation. My blood ran cold throughout my body at the tense atmosphere.  
  
        "Tate?" I called, wrapping my arms around myself as I ventured further into the depths of the house, looking for the boy whose familiar presence I detected. "Tate, I know you're down here." I briefly peered around a corner to see if I could spot any sign of the father of my child. "I'm not playing hide-and-seek, Tate, come on out and talk to me."  
  
        While I received no verbal response, the clanking of metal chains caught my attention. My eyes instantly cut over to the shadow-shrouded corner from which the sound was coming. A memory resurfaced as I stared at the spot, remembering back to when I had first discovered the horrible past of this house. Addie had broken into the basement and had claimed to be playing with her friends. There had been a red ball and the distinct noise of chains clacking together. While it had freaked me out at the time, having just read online about all of the deaths that had occurred on the property, now it only drove me forward. I cautiously walked onward until something rolled out of the shadows.  
  
        A red ball came to a stop against my foot. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I slowly lowered myself until my knees were pressed against the cold concrete, squinting into the shadows as I took the ball in my hand and gently nudged it back. Seconds later it came rolling back to me. I set it aside this time in favor of creeping ever so apprehensively towards the darkness. Stopping a few feet away from the clanking chains, I reached out a consoling hand and spoke softly, not wanting to spook whatever it was that was seemingly hiding from my sight. "It's okay, you can come out. I'm not gonna hurt you."  
  
        My breath got stuck in my throat as a face gradually emerged from the darkness. The features were swollen and disfigured, framed by scraggly black hair and accentuated with a pair of dark eyes. A grin was plastered over the rough flesh. Teeth were few and far between. Chains were secured around his ankles. I couldn't help but be somewhat reminded of Sloth from  _The Goonies_. But I wasn't afraid. This figure -- it looked like maybe a young boy, though it was difficult to tell -- didn't seem intimidating once you got past the appearance.  
  
        I inched closer. He tilted his head inquisitively, innocently, but he didn't shy away. His eyes flickered to the ball periodically. Keeping my curious gaze on him, I reached out and grabbed the toy, bringing it between us. He beamed in excitement. Bouncing lightly, much like a toddler and causing the chains to rattle, he shouted, "Play! Play!"  
  
        A tiny smile lifted the corners of my mouth. No, he wasn't intimidating. He wasn't threatening. He was just a kind, innocent soul, cursed by fate to be confined within this house for eternity. His appearance was a little distressing at first, but once you got past the initial shock, he was just a sweet child -- or however old he was; it was hard for me to determine, but either way, he appeared to have some mental disability. That just made him sweeter in my eyes. And as I continued to smile at him, take in his excitement, a certain warmth surrounded my heart. I felt almost a need to protect this innocent soul from whatever horrors were lurking around everywhere else.  
  
        "You wanna play?" I asked, lifting the ball slightly, before rolling it towards him. "Okay, let's play."  
  
        I settled myself so I was sitting cross-legged. We rolled the ball back and forth for God knows how long. He was genuinely enjoying himself, and that honestly made the tedium worth while. Whatever mental disability ailed him had seemingly affected his speech. The only thing I could out of him was, "Play!" Sometimes he would grunt in response to something I'd said or asked, as I tried to communicate with him, but I wasn't able to discern what that meant. He did seem to understand me, though, which was a good sign.  
  
        I don't know how long we were just passing the ball back and forth, but when we were interrupted by an obnoxious splashing of water coming from one of the back sections, my butt had gone numb. Forehead creased, I pushed myself up to my feet and bid a temporary goodbye to the boy in chains, wandering into the next section over. Standing proudly in the middle of the room was a grimy claw-foot tub with chrome fixtures. Water sloshed up the sides as though disturbed by an energy. Against my better judgement, I creeped closer, knowing that there should be no water in the old tub.  
  
        My face was not the only one staring back up at me when I peered over the edge. A strangled gasp left me as I whirled around to look at the two women standing behind me. However, I lost my footing and tripped backwards, falling into the tub. The water seemed much deeper than it should have been while I was immersed. My arms flailed out in the hopes of finding purchase with the slick sides. I struggled to reach the surface. I had landed in such a way that getting into a position in order to pull myself up was near impossible. But after a long moment that felt like an hour I was finally able to break the surface of the water and come back up for air.  
  
        The two women were still there. They just stood there, staring blankly, as I soaked in the tub. My lungs sucked in the stale oxygen greedily. Both of the women were young and dressed in old-fashioned nurse's uniforms. One was heavier set with dark curly hair and donned a pair of cat-eye glasses. Her uniform was as drenched as my clothes now were. The woman at her side was considerably smaller and was of some Hispanic descent. She was petite with silky brown hair. A cross necklace blunted above her blood-stained uniform.  
  
        "Look what he did to me," the bespectacled nurse said solemnly. "He knocked me out and drowned me in that tub."  
  
        At that, I clambered out of the ancient confines as swiftly as I could, incredibly uncomfortable with being inside a tub that had been used to kill someone. It was strange when you thought about it. I was not freaked out by the two nurses standing before me. It was as though I had become desensitized to the house's horrors. Given everything I had gone through, I supposed that wasn't too much of a surprise. I mean, I had just discovered not too long ago that the guy my father was seeing as a therapy patient, that I had developed feelings for and was the father of our unborn child, had committed a massacre seventeen years ago and was taken out by armed forces. I had been sexually assaulted, _twice_ , by a man hiding behind a bondage suit that seemingly no one else was even aware of. My mother and sister had nearly been murdered in some macabre reenactment of the murder back in 1968.  
  
        I was jolted. These two women were the R. Franklin victims. Reading about it was one thing. Seeing the murdered victims themselves was a whole other experience. It was almost surreal. And yet, I wasn't as freaked as I should have been; I was more intrigued than anything. This entire structure was a cabinet of curiosities, and the thought that I was just starting to unravel its secrets excited me in the most morbid of ways.  
  
        "You're those nurses," I mumbled, wrapping my arms around myself as I began to shiver, the cooler basement air prickling my wet skin. "Gladys and Maria."  
  
        The smaller woman, who I presumed was nineteen year old Maria, nodded. "He tied me up and stabbed me -- fifty-three times. All we wanted to do was help him," she said. Her eyes, big and decidedly lifeless, still glinted with the pain.  
  
        Immediately following her words was another voice. "Excuse me, ma'am, I don't want to bother you, but I'm hurt and needing some help."  
  
        I whirled around to see the redheaded woman, Fiona, from the home invasion, the one who was going to drown my sister. Standing next to her was a man, Dallas. His blue eyes bored into mine with malice as he recited, "R. Franklin was the first, before Manson. He changed the culture. We're paying tribute to him."  
  
        Fiona brandished a knife. "I would have used you as Maria, but I guess since we're already set up, you can be Gladys."  
  
        My heart thumping in my chest, I swallowed the lump that had formed and lodged in my throat. They were dead. Therefore they shouldn't be able to hurt me . . . If this situation even followed the rules of logic just a little bit. But if a ghost could get me pregnant, I guaranteed that one could also harm me, even kill me if they so desired. And I had no doubts that these two were malicious enough to do so. I may have been somewhat desensitized to all the craziness that was currently going on in my life, but I still had self-preservation instincts. At least enough to know that I should not continue hanging around here.  
  
        Stepping backwards, my wet shoes squishing against the concrete, I held up a finger and demanded, "Stay the hell away from me." I knew I wasn't forceful enough about it. There was no way I could be right now. Not when I had a life inside of my womb that I had to protect. So, opposite of what happened earlier, I listened to my survival instincts and took off in what I hoped was the direction of one of the exits.  
  
        When I turned the corner, I was stopped by a man. His white surgeon's garb contrasted with his dark hair and eyes. He lowered a surgical mask from his face in order to ask me, "Has my wife medicated you? Are you here for the procedure?"  
  
        Both hands instantly flew down to cover my faintly swollen abdomen. This was quite obviously the original owner of the house. Dr. Charles Montgomery, the 'doctor to the stars' who had to turn to illegal abortions when his own practice went under. A quick glance down at the surgical mask revealed a white powdery substance lining the inside. Probably ether, according to what I learned on the _Eternal Darkness_ tour. Charles took a few steps towards me, his brow creased as he awaited my response, and I maneuvered around him, closer to the exit.  
  
        "Uh, no. I'm not here for the . . . _procedure_ ," I rejected, swallowing to wet my mouth, as it had gone dry with the ever increasing thumping of my heart; he wasn't going to force me into it, was he? "I'm -- I'm sorry for disturbing you, Dr. Montgomery."  
  
        Charles nodded and turned around, moving to sit at the table behind him. He lifted the mask back up to his face and inhaled deeply. My eyes remained fixed on the back of his lab coat while I backed out of the section. I wasn't sure if I trusted him to stay there. Hell, I wasn't even sure if I had successfully evaded Fiona and Dallas, which only instilled in me further that I needed to get out of the basement as quickly as I could. The rest of the house wasn't any safer, but it made me _feel_ safer. It was brighter and more open. There just seemed less of a chance of being ambushed in an atmosphere like that. Especially when there were other live people around.  
  
        The sight of the stairs with the door's faint outline caused a wave of relief to surge through me. I couldn't even remember why I even wanted to come down here. Granted, I was admittedly too curious for my own damn good, but you would think I had sharper self-preservation instincts, especially with another life to guard. Once I got out of there, I would never step foot down there again; I swore to myself this was the last time I would ever descend into the bowels of the property for no good reason.  
  
        I was almost to the stairs when two figures raced by in front of me, flashes of red and green and black going by in a blur. My feet stopped automatically, and my ears pricked when two childish giggles filtered through the air around me. It reminded me of every paranormal movie that sported a child as either the original entity or the poor soul that got possessed. Before I could compose myself and continue on, a series of popping sounds suddenly surrounding me, startling me so much that I visibly jumped each time one sounded. They sounded remarkably like those bang snaps kids set off at Fourth of July gatherings. Finally it fell silent after only a couple of seconds, but this time when I went to take a step forward, there was resistance by my feet and I pitched forward.  
  
        My knees knocked hard against the concrete as my hands slapped down in front of me to catch my fall. The dull throbbing now present in my kneecaps pulled a muttered curse from me. Then suddenly I was not muttering curse words, I was screaming in agony. A keen, burning pain radiated up my right arm as razor sharp teeth pierced the flesh. Inhuman growls emitted from the demonic creature. My first instinct was to try and shake the monster off, but that did nothing more but cause my skin to tear, especially when it bit down harder. Warm blood spilled from underneath its mouth. My eyes clenched shut.  
  
        "Thaddeus, no!" a stern voice scolded. "Go away, Thaddeus!"  
  
        A screech sounded. Teeth ripped their way out of my arm, and more blood spilled out, thicker and faster as the wound pulsated. My screams and cries downgraded to whimpers as a pair of arms suddenly cradled my torso in someone's lap. I opened my tear-stung eyes to see a blurry image of a young woman with curly blonde hair pinned up and blue eyes sparkling with a plethora of emotions. She shushed me and gently lifted my injured arm, inspecting the inflicted damage with a tut before she brushed my hair out of my face and wiped the tears off my cheeks with dainty hands, soothing me in a soft tone.  
  
        Two figures approached the woman. Through my tears I was able to recognize them as the fluffers that had helped us on Halloween. Chad and Patrick. While I wanted to question why they were here, I didn't have the energy to do so. And I wasn't sure if I even wanted to know. Hell, maybe they dead too, and they just used Marcy's fluffer idea as a disguise so they could interact freely with the living. At this point, I didn't even care.  
  
        Patrick knelt down in front of us and brought my arm towards him. His touch made me wince slightly as his fingers brushed against a tender spot near the puncture site. He sighed and tutted. "Nora, you have to get that son of yours under control."  
  
        Her response was lost on me as I connected the dots. The beautiful woman gingerly cradling me was Nora Montgomery, Charles' wife. She had called that thing 'Thaddeus,' which had been the name of her son, the one that Charles attempted to resurrect. That _monster_ was that dismembered baby. Somehow, that was the most disturbing thing I'd seen yet -- that thing did _not_ bear any resemblance to a baby aside from its size and the bloodied, torn clothing it was wearing. Everything else about it, from its black soulless eyes to its pointed teeth, was just demonic.  
  
        Nora allowed Patrick to scoop me up bridal-style into his arms with a warning for him to be careful with me. Patrick made a remark about he used to be an EMT and therefore knew what he was doing. I was carried all the way up to my bathroom before being set down. Luckily Ben had left and Mom wasn't home yet, otherwise it would have been real difficult to explain what was going on. Chad wrapped a towel around my still wet and quivering frame and set aside a dry pair of clothes for me while Patrick searched for something to clean me up with. I just sat silently on the toilet lid and let them take care of me. My mind was a peculiar combination of racing too fast and blank. Either way, I couldn't force myself to do anything other than sit there, so I just . . . sat there.  
  
        Patrick did a good job of bandaging my arm after cleaning the wound. Gauze was wrapped around my forearm and tucked around my hand to keep it in place. The bite throbbed painfully under the pressure. My fingers lightly grazed over the inflicted area as I leaned against my bed's metal frame with my legs drawn up to my chest. I didn't so much as leave my room after I was fixed up. After my arm had been cleaned and bandaged, and I had changed into the clothes -- a pair of black lounge pants with sporty dark blue and white stripes down the sides and a black sweatshirt with a blue and white butterfly on the front -- that Chad had laid out for me, I just wanted to be alone. So I tossed my hair up into a messy bun, crawled up onto my mattress, and got lost in my thoughts. There was so much to think about. It was hard to focus on just one. My mind constantly bounced between my ultrasound, my conversation with Leah, everything that I had gone through in the basement, my desensitization to all of it -- my head was a very troubled place after everything that happened today.  
  
        Moira had come up to my room with the tray of offal in the evening under the pretense that I was feeling ill; at least that's what she said she told Mom, that my stomach had been queasy all day and was resting. The offal didn't taste as bad as it looked or smelled, but the only thing that forced it down my throat was that it was supposedly good for the baby. After all of the stress I'd just been put through, on top of the stress that was always with me, I figured I could suffer a little to ensure his health. My stomach did roil in protest for a while afterwards, but it soon settled down without making me purge its contents.  
  
        The air around me shifted shifted to accommodate a new presence. Seconds later the mattress dipped as a warm body climbed up next to me. My eyes never once lifted from my bandaged arm, but I didn't need to look to know who it was. It was the same presence I felt down in the basement before I'd stumbled across the boy in chains. Except this time he actually decided to show himself to me. I wasn't upset that he hadn't showed earlier when I called for him. If anything, I was annoyed at myself for going down in the basement in the first place; it wasn't as though Tate wouldn't have showed in my room sooner or later. He always found his way in there.  
  
        His hand reached across me to grab my injured arm, gently tugging it towards him with care. He copied my earlier movements and traced it lightly with his fingers. His voice as soft as his actions, he asked, "How does it feel?"  
  
        "It hurts," I admitted quietly.  
  
        He lifted my arm and pressed his lips to the bandage as though he were trying to kiss away the pain. "I'm sorry," he murmured sympathetically. "I wish there was something I could do." He slumped back against the bed frame. My arm fell to his torso, and his hand followed it, softly gripping my own and playing with my fingers.  
  
        I bit my lip and glanced up at him. His eyes were closed, his expression downcast. My gaze flickered over his features as Leah popped into my head with her sermon. Could Tate really be the Devil? His blonde curls framing his beautiful face gave him an angelic appearance. However, despite knowing he was anything but, I did not believe he could be the Devil. He was much too sweet and sensitive. As Constance had said, he had the heart of a poet with too deep feelings, and no matter what disguise the Devil may take on in order to blend into society, there was no way he could fake the depth of feeling and sensitivity that Tate possessed.  
  
        Sighing through my nose, I slid closer to him, lying my head on his chest. His heartbeat was nonexistent, which made sense, but I wasn't bothered by it. He was still warm as though blood continued to pump through his veins. It was an odd combination, lively with no heartbeat, but while others might have been put off by it, I found it strangely comforting. I found  _him_  strangely comforting.  
  
        "You just being here is enough," I murmured.  
  
        His chest lifted up and fell back down in a sigh of his own. He wrapped his arms around me, and I snuggled further into him, closing my eyes as I felt him place a kiss to the top of my head. "I'll always be here, if that's what you want."  
  
        I smiled faintly at the words. He would always be there, and I couldn't imagine me ever _not_ wanting him there. Those words were the last ones I heard before I drifted off in his hold, slipping into a fitful sleep, a little red man with horns and a tail plaguing my dreams.

* * *

**This chapter is admittedly not my favorite. I have revised and edited multiple sections, but I still feel as though it's rushed and just not as good as it possibly could be. However, I am unable to edit it anymore to a point where I like it, and I honestly feel as though this is the best I can do for this one. I sincerely apologize if it does not keep your interest or if it is so atrocious you simply cannot bare through it. I hate posting it when even I am not happy with it, but as I stated, I feel as though this is the best that is going to come from this chapter. So, again, I apologize. I promise the next one will be better if you stick around for it.**   
  
**I have decided that Tate and Abbie definitely need a ship name, something that I plan on doing for all of my pairings from now on, just to have something to refer to them as, you know? I was messing around with their names, and I have come up with the ship name 'Tabbie.' I personally like it, I think it's cute, but if anyone has any suggestions, I would love to hear them.**


	23. Walking Disaster

If there was one thing I hadn't been prepared for coming to Los Angeles, it was the weather. It had always been picture perfect whenever we'd visit before the move. Clear blue skies, the faintest ocean breeze, and a nice big sun. We had never been privy to anything but the stereotypical California climate. Therefore, it had been easy for me to forget that November marked the beginning of the state's rainy season, but I had been reminded multiple times over the course of the past week.  
  
        The rain hadn't come down too hard yet, and the temperature had remained comfortable, but it was just a nuisance. I hated having to run around when the roads were slick. Accidents were much more common when there was less friction underneath tires. A couple had forced me to find a detour to work. It was more annoying than anything, and with my hormones beginning to rear their ugly heads at the most inconvenient of times, I was more irritable. It took very little to get on my nerves anymore. Each day brought with it a different level of tolerance.  
  
        There were few activities to do on any given Monday. Time was devoted to work or something as equally productive. Monday was primarily a business day. Rain made it so there were even less activities available. No one wanted to go out when it was wet outside. The consistent drops of water falling from the clouds created a dreary atmosphere that encouraged one to remain indoors and curl up with a good book.  
  
        That's what I would have been doing if this wasn't the last time I'd be able to see my honorary grandmothers for a few weeks. They were leaving early tomorrow morning to spend the holidays with Marion's family up in Michigan. Thanksgiving was ten days away, but Marion wanted to arrive early in order to help take care of her younger brother Brock, who was in his late sixties and ailed with Alzheimer's. I had met Brock once when I was twelve. He had only been in the early stages of the disease, but I distinctly remember him lapsing into an episode where he failed to recognize anyone or where he was, and Marion's eyes had welled with tears when he couldn't remember her. It was one of the saddest memories I had.  
  
        Marion loved her brother to the moon and back. She would do anything for him and his family. That was why she and Lana were flying in early. It was becoming harder for his wife to care for him, even with the help of their children, and Marion wanted to make things easier on her for the holidays. While I was upset that I wouldn't be able to spend them with the only stable family members in my life right now, I knew that it was important to Marion that she be there for her brother, and I respected that.  
  
        The three of us were once again gathered in the sitting room. Lana and Marion sat on either side of me as we shared the cream-colored sofa. It was a relief to have the opportunity to just sit and relax. My shift at the café hadn't been longer than a few hours -- nine to three -- but my feet and ankles were already beginning to swell. The discomfort was only heightened when I had to stand behind a counter for six hours with only a couple of breaks in between. It wasn't only my tops and bottoms that didn't fit properly anymore. My shoes were tighter now too.  
  
        That was something that irritated me. All it did was remind me that I was growing bigger and would soon need to replace the majority of my wardrobe. The amount of clothing I still felt comfortable in was quickly becoming limited. Getting dressed was now a part of my daily routine that I disliked. I hated pulling on clothes I wore all the time only to feel unattractive in them because they either outlined my ballooning stomach or were more difficult to fasten. Especially since only because a select group of people knew the reason behind my body's changes, and I was still fighting to hide it from others.  
  
        Lana and Marion took advantage of the fact that they knew. When I visited them, they were able to discuss it freely with me and did so eagerly, and they had taken up the habit of feeling my stomach as it increased in size much quicker than I would have preferred. According to Dr. Kirkland, I was around six weeks along when I went in for my ultrasound, which was roughly two weeks earlier than the heartbeat should be heard, which was why she claimed the baby was growing at a quicker pace. But she proceeded to inform me afterwards when I was checking out that she could see nothing wrong and that I would just have more frequent appointments so she could keep an eye on the development. I was now roughly seven weeks pregnant, and my stomach had swelled to the size of a cantaloupe.  
  
        It was getting harder to conceal my pregnancy. The size of my stomach was just one factor. My symptoms had gotten more aggressive over the past week. Multiple trips to the bathroom were taken either to throw up or empty my bladder. My breasts were finally enlarging, but their tenderness overrode any bit of enthusiasm for that. I was bloated, and the build up of gas and stomach acid gave me heartburn and indigestion, which led to me burping and flatuating much more often than usual -- that was the most embarrassing part in my eyes.  
  
        Pretty much every symptom that could present itself during the first trimester had, and all of them combined aggravated my fluctuating hormones, causing me to go from normal to hating the world and everyone in it in the blink of an eye. It was amazing how no one had figured out I was pregnant yet, but maybe they just thought I was gaining weight. At least no one had confronted me about it yet. But I knew I was running out of time to tell my family and Tate before they reached the conclusion on their own.  
  
        Lana's hand gingerly rubbed over the swollen flesh of my abdomen. My shirt, one that was looser fitting so it didn't hug the thickness of my lower torso, had been pulled up to rest just above the protrusion. I couldn't help but smile faintly at the pure joy that brightened not only her expression, but Marion's as well, as her hand joined her partner's. There were so many things I complained about concerning the pregnancy, but me starting to get annoyed at the whole situation had no impact on how I really felt about it, and the truth was, every last symptom I suffered through would be worth it. It would all be okay in seven months when I was holding my baby in my arms for the first time. Despite all of my grumbles and complaints, I knew that, and I eagerly anticipated the moment I could look into my baby's eyes and welcome him into the world.  
  
        "So," Marion wondered, removing her hand from my stomach, "have you thought of any names yet?"  
  
        That was something I had not even thought about it I was being completely honest. Names just didn't seem like a priority right now. It was obviously important that I put thought into what to name my child, as it was something he would have to live with at least until he was old enough to have it legally changed, but it wasn't something I was worried about at the moment. I had heard stories of women who had had names chosen for their babies, but when they saw them in person for the first time, those names didn't suit the child. Mom once told me that's what happened with me and Violet. Given that she was going to name us Starfire and Sunshine -- I  still wasn't sure if she and Ben had been joking or not about that, though I sincerely hoped they had been -- I was actually glad she had changed her mind upon our deliveries.  
  
        I wanted to wait at least until I found out whether I was having a boy or a girl. That way I knew what kind of names I would be looking for.  
  
        I shook my head. "Not yet. I want to wait until I know the gender," I admitted.  
  
        Lana withdrew her hand. Mine instinctively replaced it, cupping the swell protectively, and she smiled. "Well, whatever names you do consider, I know you'll pick the perfect one." Her expression turned a little more serious as she watched me tug my shirt back down over my stomach. "Have you told anyone yet? Your parents, or the father?" she asked.  
  
        My eyes traveled over to the window, tracking the rain as it created trails down the pane. That was an answer I didn't particularly want to provide. It was stupid that I was waiting so long to tell anybody. Surely someone must be getting a little suspicious by now. I was nearing the second trimester. If no one had caught on that I wasn't just gaining weight and becoming more irritable, they would soon enough. Honestly I was a little surprised that Tate hadn't caught on yet. He was the one person with which I spent most of my time, and the majority of the time, we always ended up in each other's arms. It wouldn't have been hard for him to start feeling the changes as they altered my body.  
  
        My silence was enough of an answer for Lana. She sighed. "Abigail --"  
  
        "I know, I know," I interrupted, cutting her off before she could scold me. "I'm going to tell them,  _soon_ , I just -- now isn't a good time." I lifted my hands to rub at my face, sighing heavily. "A lot of shit is going on right now, I don't think they need something else to worry about."  
  
        There _was_ a lot going on in my life at the moment. Not only with me, but with Mom and Ben, and I'm sure Violet was having some issues of her own. But even I knew I was using that as an excuse to put it off for as long as I could. Lana and Marion had caught on to that as well. They both sighed in what sounded like muted disappointment.  
  
        Marion placed a hand on my leg. "Honey, the longer you wait, the harder it's gonna be," she stressed. "You have to treat this like a band-aid, just do it quick and get it over with." Her eyes stared solemnly into mine with a certain hardness to them. It was the look she adopted whenever she was being serious and otherwise ordering someone to do something.  
  
        She was right. Of course she was right. And I knew it. I had been making excuses and subsequently scolding myself for weeks now. It was time to tell them. Maybe I would get yelled at or reprimanded or punished, and maybe I would just end up disappointing them, but the best way to do it was to just tell them. Quick and all at once, like a band-aid.  
  
        When I left their house, I had been prepared to just walk inside, call whichever parent was in the house to come talk to me, and get it out there. I was even looking forward to it. It would be such a weight to be lifted off of me if I was no longer carrying the baby as a poorly concealed secret. But by the time I was pulling up into the driveway, my enthusiasm and courage had waned, and I was once again debating on whether or not now was the time. My stomach twisted into painful knots at the thought of finally telling them. Perhaps . . . Maybe, I could put it off for just a  _little_  while longer, use the time to collect my thoughts and work on how I was going to tell them, what I was going to say.  
  
        The house was fairly quiet when I crossed the threshold. A small frown touched my lips. The last time it was this quiet I ended up with a nasty bite-induced scar. Of course, I didn't have to worry about that happening again, especially since I had no desire or intention to ever step foot in that basement for anything. Still, I proceeded with caution, stepping carefully through the foyer until a flash of vibrant red caught my eye.  
  
        "Moira," I voiced, causing the housekeeper to turn towards the archway, "Where is everyone?"  
  
        The elderly woman offered a kind smile. "Your mother is upstairs lying down, the pregnancy has been getting the best of her today, I'm afraid," she informed me. I nodded; I knew how that felt.  
  
        "Violet and Ben?"  
  
        "Mr. Harmon left, and your sister is in her room, as always."  
  
        Moira was right -- Violet  _was_  always in her room. She rarely ever came out. And she wasn't exactly delightful when she did. It was like Violet was deliberately unpleasant whenever she was forced to interact with any of us. We were all probably better off with her locking herself away in her room. That was a horrible thought to have, especially about your own sister, but her negativity was incredibly off-putting. It also had a tendency to upset Mom. She never said anything, usually just let her youngest excuse herself, but I could tell it bothered her.  
  
        I nodded again and, after thanking the housekeeper, turned to head up to my own room. All I wanted was to maybe soak in the bath and lie down myself. But she stopped me before I could leave.  
  
        "Miss Harmon, if you'd please wait just a while longer before retiring to your own room," she spoke, shuffling over to the refrigerator and opening it, reaching inside to grab something. "Constance dropped by earlier with another delicious delicacy."  
  
        Another covered dish balanced delicately between her hands as she backed out. She shut the door and lifted the glass lid to reveal what was very clearly a brain. It was a grayish white with just a hint of pink running through alongside the veins and grooves. The urge to gag was a hard one to resist as the acids within my stomach were violently disrupted. Swallowing down the rising bile, I settled on a brief grimace and a quick refusal, not wanting to even come near it, let alone place it in my mouth and force it down my throat. Moira's brows rose at my urgent tone.  
  
        Feeling the need to further explain, I settled on a simple excuse as to why I refused so sharply, not wanting to say that it was because it just looked repulsive. It felt almost rude to say that even though Constance was not here. "I -- I don't want you cooking for me. You do so much for us already, Moira, please don't go to the trouble."  
  
        A small smile curled the corners of her withered lips. "No trouble at all, Miss Harmon, it's served raw. That's the best way for you to get the full measure of vitamins, to help with your condition." She set the dish down on the table in the outcropping while I reluctantly followed with a frown; she referred to it as my  _condition_  -- did that mean she knew? "It's the most nutritious organ of them all, you know, and this one came right from an organic farm. I hear the raw food movement is really taking off these days," she commented.  
  
        I kept my careful gaze on her as she fetched me a fork. It did not escape my notice that she had reverted back to calling me Miss Harmon, but I didn't have it in me to insist she call me Abigail, and I figured it was probably just habit anyway. She returned to the table and handed me the utensil. I was slow in taking it, my lips pinched in worry that she knew I wasn't just having stomach troubles, and scrutinized her as subtlely and politely as I could to see if I could tell.  
  
        She merely patted my hand. "It's a mother's job to ensure her baby gets the proper nutrients." My mouth went dry as my heart rate sped up with the knowledge that she definitely knew I was pregnant; there was no way she couldn't, nit with that line. "Constance's maternal instincts may be skewed, but she has no qualms in extending them to others, especially when they've become such an important part of her life." My frown deepened, confused as to whether or not she knew, and she only smiled in response. "Someone's looking out for you, Miss Harmon, don't you worry," she said before leaving the room. I stared after her.  
  
        That woman was an enigma. She was difficult to read. And right now that didn't bode well for me. Although I guess maybe her possibly knowing wasn't too bad. It didn't have to mean I'd done a poor job at hiding it. Maybe she was just observant. And it didn't seem as though she were going to tell anyone. So maybe I didn't have to worry about it.  
  
        With a sigh, I turned back to the dish in front of me, grimacing as I poked at it with the fork. The brain jiggled at the jab. It actually  _jiggled_. "Oh God," I groaned quietly. It took a lot for me to pick off a piece with the utensil's prongs. When I did, I brought it up to eye level and just examined it, my lips twisting into a sneer of disgust. There was no way in Hell I was going to be able to eat this.  
  
        I was about to set it down and walk away from the table, but my own brain decided to take control of my body and kept me rooted in my seat with the reminder that it was for the baby. I couldn't argue with that. Anything that was for the baby's health was something I was willing to do. My brain knew that and used it against my body. So I took a deep breath to steady myself, squeezed my eyes shut, and closed my lips around the prongs. The fork was swiftly extracted while leaving the raw brain on my tongue.  
  
        It sat there for a second as I evaluated the taste before tentatively chewing the small piece. I was surprised to find that it was not rubbery as I'd expected, but instead it was almost creamy, and the taste was different, but it wasn't necessarily bad. The fact that I wasn't repulsed by it was enough to churn my stomach in shame. Though I supposed it was just like eating any other part of the pig, it just felt different, more personal. This wasn't one of the glands or the ribs. It was the  _brain_. It was the organ that controlled its every moment from fetus to butcher. A pig's brain chemistry was similar to a human's -- following that logic, it was almost like eating a human brain. And that thought was immensely disturbing.  
  
        I had to shove that thought to the very back of my mind in order to continue. It wasn't terribly difficult for me to accomplish if I just didn't think too much about it. If I just closed my eyes and pretended it wasn't a brain, that it was just some other ordinary food that everyone ate on a regular basis, I could stomach it. It also helped if I focused on something else. My mind defaulted to my conversation with Lana and Marion.  
  
        Baby names. While I hadn't put much thought, if any, into it before, I supposed that now might be a good time to start. I did want to wait until the gender was revealed, so that way I knew which ones to be considering, but pondering some possibilities before then wasn't a bad idea.  
  
        If the baby was a girl, I definitely wanted to name her after my grandmother, but I would probably just use her middle name. There were names that I was partial too aside from my grandmother's. Scarlett was one of my favorites, ever since I first read _Gone with the Wind_. I also really liked the sound of Roseanne. Names like Ellie and Millie were also cute. Those were generally nicknames, but they could be derived from names that I thought sounded pretty decent, like Evelyn or Milena.  
  
        If the baby was a boy, I would probably want to name him Kit after my grandfather. I'd never met him, not even as a baby, but from all the stories that I'd heard from Lana from back when she knew him in the early sixties and onward, he sounded like an individual I'd enjoy being around even if we weren't related. Logan was another name I'd always liked, for no particular reason, I just liked the way it sounded. I supposed Oliver and Elliot had nice rings to them as well. Though, I did have to admit, Oliver was less appealing after hearing Lana's story and reading her novel. So maybe not Oliver.  
  
        A hand slammed down on the table in front of the dish. The sudden, unexpected action jerked me from my thoughts as I jumped slightly in my seat. My eyes instantly darted up to the culprit. Violet's hazel ones glared into mine with a harshness she had never once directed at me. I furrowed my brow, but before I could ask what was wrong, her mouth opened to demand, "What the hell is this?"  
  
        Frowning, I let my eyes drift back down to the table as her hand lifted, revealing a grainy black and white image of something a little larger than a kidney bean. I had to stare at it for a few seconds in stunned silence before my brain would process what it was. It was my ultrasound.  
  
        My widened gaze swiftly shifted back to my sister. Her mouth was pinched and her eyes were narrowed angrily. There was no denying what that was, what she now knew. There wasn't even a point. My name was on the ultrasound, and the little misshapen kidney bean was clearly a developing fetus. I wasn't terribly worried about Moira knowing, when she had dropped that hint it had sounded like she had known for some time now and clearly hadn't told anyone, but I _was_ worried about Violet knowing. She still had something against me, and while I knew she didn't just hate me, there was really nothing stopping her from telling Mom or Ben.  
  
        Instead of defending myself, I said the first thing that came to me. "What were you doing in my room?"  
  
        She scoffed and brought her other hand up above the surface of the table. In it was a green book that she smacked down next to the ultrasound. "I was going to give you this. I thought maybe you'd want to look at it." She shook her head. "God, Abbie, I can't -- seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped.  
  
        "It's not like I planned it," I countered, feeling irritation creeping up, "It was an accident."  
  
        "A mistake is more like it."  
  
        The reaction to that sentence was instantaneous. All of my frustration, all of my irritation and anger, it all bubbled up to the surface to expose itself. I glared at the scornful expression contorting my sister's youthful face. She didn't falter when I suddenly stood up from my seat so I could move out from behind the table. My hands instinctively curled into fists at my side, my nails digging into my palms, but I raised one to point at her, much like someone scolding a dog.  
  
        "You watch your mouth," I warned, stressing each word through partially clenched teeth. "You may be my sister, Violet, but I'm telling you now, I _will_ put this child before you." The idea that there was a time when I put Violet before anyone was almost laughable right then. "I will _not_ have you talking like that about my baby."  
  
        I knew Violet was still pissed at me for one thing or another, and I was perfectly okay with her taking jabs at me if that was what she had to do in order to make herself feel better, but I would not tolerate her calling my unborn child a mistake. An accident and a mistake were two completely different things. Both were probably unexpected, but one was wanted and one wasn't, and while I was scared out of my mind that a tiny living being was growing inside of me, I wanted him. Seeing my baby on the ultrasound, hearing his heartbeat, it really made it hit home for me, and I already loved him so much despite not actually having met him yet. He was my child, my son or daughter, and I wasn't about to let anyone speak ill of him.  
  
        Violet's eyes lit up with a new hatred. Whether it was directed at me or the situation, I didn't know, but she didn't bother to explain before she sneered, "Of course you will, so long as it's still inside you."  
  
        "And what the hell does that mean?"  
  
        She scoffed again. "You are so fucking selfish, Abigail. Everything's about _you_. Things around here are going to hell, and all you did was go get yourself knocked up by some dead kid." Her eyes glimmered with emotion before it was quickly concealed underneath a hardness of anger. "You don't care about anyone but yourself anymore. _You are selfish_ ," she repeated, stressing each word, in conclusion.  
  
        That hurt. It hurt that she really believed all I cared about was myself. That I had become so self-absorbed as to not care about anyone else. But it also caused a spike in anger. And that vexation overrode any hurt I was feeling. How  _dare_  she accuse me of being selfish? Of not caring about anyone but myself? Where did she even get off thinking she had the  _right_  to say that to me?  
  
        I gave a short, humorless laugh. " _I'm_  selfish? That's the pot calling the kettle black, don't you think, Vi?" She scrunched her eyebrows together, but I continued before she could interject. "If anyone is selfish here, Violet, it's _you_. Ever since we moved here you've been nothing but an ungrateful brat. Mom's going through a lot of shit right now, and your 'poor, little, misunderstood girl' act is doing nothing but causing her more stress. It's causing more stress on _all of us_. But you don't care. No, you just sit up in your room all day, not giving a damn about anything. So before you call  _me_  selfish, you better take a good hard look in the mirror," I seethed.  
  
        Hurt glimmered briefly within the hazel of her irises. I had almost expected a weight to be lifted off my shoulders once the words had left my mouth, having felt that way for some time now, but instead they just felt more weighed down than before. A heavy feeling slowly sank to the pit of my stomach as my narrowed gaze swiftly took in her reaction. She swiftly wiped her expression of any vulnerable emotion.  
  
        "At least staying in my room has prevented me from whoring myself out to a dead kid," she retorted harshly, causing my hands to curl into fists, which I had to force to stay at my sides as I felt myself start flushing with anger. "And at least I stay out of her way. You were such a pain in the ass when Dad was here, Abigail, it's a wonder how she didn't leave with him."  
  
        "Mom kicked that bastard out because he can't keep it in his pants," I defended. "I had nothing to do with him leaving."  
  
        "You didn't exactly make him feel welcome either."  
  
        It took every ounce of my limited self-restraint to bite back a groan of pure irritation. Violet and I never fought like this.  _Never_. We disagreed in quite a few things, but we used to be able to look past all that, we used to get along better than most siblings. It was astounding how much our dynamic had changed. This was the first time we'd exchanged more than a few words with each other for a long while, and it was only to claw at each other's throats. I didn't even know what it was we were supposed to be fighting about. At first I thought it was about the baby, and her finding out I was pregnant, but now I wasn't sure.  
  
        I chewed furiously on the inside of my cheek. "What the hell is this about, Violet? Is it about Ben? Mom? Tate? Me? You? Seriously, what the hell is it?" I demanded to know. My patience was running extremely thin. If she didn't get to the point soon, or if one of us didn't walk away, I was going to end up raising my hand to her.  
  
        No one in our family had ever hit each other before. We didn't resort to violence to solve our issues. Our issues generally never got confronted, but even when they did, we never did more than raise our voices. I didn't want to hurt Violet. That was the last thing I wanted to do. But I could just feel that urge growing stronger as my anger continued to spike. My fingers were physically twitching in response to me fighting it. I knew I would end up doing it if she continued to provoke me. And I knew I should be the one to turn away before that happened, that I should be the one to walk away before I reached the point when I could no longer hold back, but I couldn't force my feet to carry me away from the situation.  
  
        She huffed and shook her head, a smile of wry amusement curling her lips up at the corners. "You really don't get it, do?"  
  
        "No, Violet, I really don't. God, you -- we used to be so close. Then suddenly you hate me. No warning, no reason given, you just sudenly _hate_  me. So, no, I really don't get it. And I decided that I don't really care either. Hate me all you want, for whatever reason you have, because I give up on you, and I give up on hoping we could ever be a family again.  _I give up._ "  
  
        My words shocked even me. Telling her I didn't care was one thing, but telling her I gave up on her . . . That was just uncalled for and downright cruel. You never told someone you'd given up on them. That was like the worst thing you could say to a struggling family member. But I guess, in a way, my words rang true. I  _had_  given up.  
  
        Violet stared at me. My words had hit her hard. She may have become quite adept at masking her emotions, but I was her sister, and I knew what to look for and how to look past the mask. No amount of anger I was feeling could prevent me from seeing the effect my words had on her.  
  
        "Go to Hell," she spat.  
  
        I was silent as she stormed past me and out of the room. My fists slowly uncurled and my body deflated as my irritation gradually dwindled. I was left feeling guilty and vulnerable. It was not unlike the emotional turmoil I experienced after telling my own father that I hated him. This was esentially the same situation.  _I give up on you_  is basically the same as  _I hate you_. Just phrased differently.  
  
        As much as her words stung me, I knew mine had packed a much harder punch, and I didn't find any relief from that. Releasing some of my pent up frustration hadn't brought me any sort of comfort. The only effect it had was pull me further down with my demons.  
  
        I was already in Hell.  
  
        My mind was still focused on the argument later that evening. It was at the very forefront, stubbornly refusing to leave me alone, replaying the whole thing over and over with special emphasis on the last thing that left my mouth. It was a different kind of torment that I couldn't faze out or ignore. No matter how much I wanted to or how hard I tried. I just couldn't distract myself enough to stop thinking about it.  
  
        The book that Violet had given me lay open beside me on my bed. It was a guide to different species of birds, but I wasn't too interested in reading it. In my hand was the checkout card from the pocket in the back. Names and dates were listed, but none of them mattered except for the one halfway down the card, the very last name.  _Tate Langdon_.  
  
        He had failed to put the date. I never remembered to write the date either. Of course I hadn't had to fill out a checkout card since I was in grade school. Now it was all on computers.  
  
        I traced my index finger over the name. The pencil had been pressed down hard enough to leave grooves. It assured me that it was real, which was something I struggled with for a lot of things lately. The graphite even smudged lightly under my touch despite how old it was.  
  
        With a sigh, I slid the card back its pocket, careful not the let the corners get caught on the inner folds. Then I flipped back to the front of the book, absentmindedly thumbing through the pages of information. I wasn't reading the words. My mind was unable to focus on the lines my eyes were skimming over. They were all just blurry nonsense to me.  
  
        "I like birds, too."  
  
        His voice didn't startle me as it once might have. I had become accustomed to him appearing out of nowhere. His presence had a certain feel to it that I had learned to recognize. When someone pops in and out of your company with little not warning, which admittedly is not an occurrence common with individuals who lead normal lives in a normal house, it urges you to learn to pick up on the signs of their sudden appearance.  
  
        I didn't bother looking up as my unfocused gaze remained on the pages. "Why do you like them?" I asked softly. My voice sounded absent, far away, proving to me that my mind truly was elsewhere.  
  
        "'Cause they can fly away when things get too crazy, I guess," he replied lightly. It fell silent for a moment before he shifted his weight, not stepping away from his spot at the end of my bed. "What's wrong?"  
  
        My lips pressed together as I flicked to the next page. I didn't want to talk about it. It was bad enough I couldn't get it out of my head. Speaking to someone about it would only further instill in me how awful a person I was. And I didn't need yet another reminder of that.  
  
        "Nothing," I denied with a shake of my head, letting a second pass before I added truthfully, "I'm just sad."  
  
        "Me too." Another silence. "Abbie, something has changed in you, towards me. You're distant, cold. I don't know what I've done, but I'll leave you alone from now on if that's what you want." He sounded horrified at the thought, but I still couldn't bring myself to look at him, not yet. "Is that what you want?"  
  
        I didn't respond. The corners of my eyes pricked with tears that I tried to blink away. Yet another reminder that I was a horrible person. Nothing I did seemed to be right anymore. Everything I did or said just seemed to hurt somebody I cared about. I'd hurt my family, I'd hurt him -- I was a walking disaster.  
  
        "You know why I'd leave you alone? Because I care about your feelings more than mine," Tate continued when I didn't answer. His voice quivered slightly as though he were holding back tears of his own. "I love you." A sob tore from his throat quietly. "There, I said it -- I've known it for a while, and I finally said it. I would never let anyone or anything hurt you." His tone softened as he stated, "I've never felt that way about anyone."  
  
        My heart skipped a beat and thumped against chest when he admitted he loved me. Those were three words girls waited their whole lives to hear, but instead of being happy about it, I only felt worse. It felt insincere. It didn't feel right, like I had deceived him into thinking that, and in a way I guess I had. He was one of the few people that still didn't know I was pregnant. He had no clue I had been carrying his child for seven weeks. And I was afraid that he wouldn't feel the same way once he knew.  
  
        But I couldn't help but reciprocate. I loved him. That was bad for me because I knew I would just continue to hurt him. Him loving me in return was even worse.  
  
        The tears slipped from my eyes and fell down my cheeks. He shouldn't love me. I was not a good person to love. I would just end up hurting him more than I already had. It pained me to know that, and it pained me to know I probably couldn't even prevent it. No matter how much I wanted to keep him safe from me, I knew he would just end up hurt in the end, no matter what I did.  
  
        I couldn't handle that.  
  
        "You can't love me, Tate," I whispered. "You need to just . . . leave me alone, please."  
  
        He sniffed, and my peripheral vision caught the glint of water sliding down his face, but he still didn't move as his voice cracked with vulnerability. "Is that what you want, Abbie? Do you really want me to leave you alone?"  
  
        I finally lifted my eyes from the book to look up at him. It was intended to portray strength, to help him realize I was serious, to help me further assert my point. But I couldn't repeat it. His own eyes were rimmed in red and glistening with tears. As always, the sight broke my heart, and I couldn't tell him to stop bothering with me. I didn't want him to leave me alone.  
  
        Now I understood why Violet had called me selfish. She said that because I  _was_. Only someone truly selfish would risk keeping someone around when they were fully aware that person would only get hurt in the end.  
  
        My bottom lip quivered with the effort to keep my own crying to a minimum. I swallowed hard and shook my head. "Come here," I pleaded, setting the book aside. It was placed on my nightstand where I would remember where it was.  
  
        Tate stared at me for a second before slowly climbing onto my bed and crawling over the length of my mattress. When he was by me, I wrapped my arm around his torso, pulling him down to lie next to me, my front pressed against his back. He reached up and wrapped his arm over mine to grip my hand in his. I rested my head against his after pressing a lingering kiss into his hair.  
  
        "I love you, Tate."

* * *

**'I love you' has finally been said! But Abbie is not as happy about it as one would think. I was debating for a long while how this chapter was going to end, so I hope I picked a good one. I also hope this chapter was better than the previous one. I think I did a fairly good job on most parts, but of course I may just be a little biased, and if I am, feel free to tell me it sucked if it did.**   
  
**As a side note, I feel as though some of what I may say in these notes may come off as sort of arrogant or like I'm a little conceited concerning this story, and I just want to apologize if I do come off that way. I don't intend to, and I certainly don't think or feel as though I have any right to come off as such.**


	24. Thanksgiving

**Warning: Sexual content.**

* * *

It was rare that the house would be empty during the day. Void of living people anyway. The house was never truly empty when you thought about it. But the thought that I was the only current person on the property, that was also free to _leave_ the property whenever the desire struck, was odd for a few reasons. One, it was Thursday, the middle of the week. Violet should be out, and Ben should come and go, but Mom usually stayed home. Two, it was only nine in the morning. Ben should be coming over soon for his first session, Violet should be at school, but Mom should still be home, waiting for a potential buyer to show or chatting with Moira. Three, it was Thanksgiving. Everyone should be home because no one had anywhere to be.  
  
        Mom and Violet were out for a few hours, the note left behind wasn't specific, and I assumed Ben was just hanging around his apartment.  
  
        Thanksgiving used to mean so much. I used to wake up to the delicious aroma of turkey roasting in the oven and the chatter of certain family members arriving to help prepare the feast. There used to be company to enjoy and fun to be had. Mom's brother and sister would come with their families, Lana and Marion would fly out to join us every other year, Grandma Mary and Mom would banter back and forth over who was in charge of which food or activity. The older kids would keep the younger ones entertained, helping out with whatever was asked of us, anything to make the preparations easier and the day more fun. It just used to be a really nice time spent with family that we didn't get to see everyday.  
  
        When I woke up this morning, there was none of that. No smells of cooking food floated up from the kitchen, no telltale sounds of clanking pots and pans. It had been silent too. There hadn't been any signs of movement anywhere. No talking, no footsteps. It had been dead quiet. For once the place actually felt empty. And for once I didn't want it to feel that way. I wanted it to feel crowded, to have the atmosphere be as light and jovial as I remembered Thanksgiving being, but with the way things were, I doubted it would ever go back to that.  
  
        My eyes closed against the soothing sensation of water pounding gently against my exposed skin. The steady stream of warm water cascaded from the showerhead to help wash away the tension that had built up in my muscles. If only the water could perform miracles . . . I had been so stressed lately. Nothing would be able to get my muscles to relax again. At least not anytime soon. Even my sleep was tense. I'd wake up multiple times throughout the night. It had seemed like forever since I'd gotten a full night's rest. That on top of everything else made for an incredibly stressed, hormonal, pregnant, teenage girl -- it was _not_ a fun time for anyone.  
  
        One thing that did seem to be a miracle was that this was the first morning I had woken up without feeling sick. My symptoms seemed to have taken a spot in the backseat for now. Morning sickness hadn't had me rushing to the toilet yet, my feet didn't ache, no heartburn or indigestion, my breasts weren't too tender, I wasn't bloated or fatigued yet -- all in all, I felt fairly well, physically at least. It made for a less irritable mood. Until it all hit me at once later on in the day. Then I was not going to be a happy camper and would probably just barricade myself in my room to avoid interaction. That's what I did the other day when my hormones were particularly aggravated.  
  
        I wrapped myself in my robe when I decided to stop wasting water and got out of the shower. The heavy fabric caressed my wet body in a cocoon of warmth that was not totally appreciated with the early heat of the day. But I had once again neglected to bring my clothes into the bathroom with me, so I had to grab them from my room so I could get dressed. And, like every other time, the space was not as vacant as it was when I left. It didn't even phase me at this point. After time I just grew to almost expect it.  
  
        Tate reclined on my mattress with his arms crossed behind his head. He looked up when my bare feet padded onto my carpet. It wasn't rare for him to just appear in my room now. Ever since we exchanged our admissions of our love, however fleeting or doomed or misguided it may be, he had been in there more often than not. Most days he would be waiting for me to get home from work, and he would generally stay with me until I fell asleep, never there when I woke up but quick to show up after a while.  
  
        My feet took a detour on the way to my dresser and guided me over to my bed. I let out a soft groan and fell next to him. My stomach pressed into the mattress as I turned my head to look at him. He sniggered at my dramatics even while he leaned to place a hand on my lower back. My muscles reflexively tensed under his touch before reverting back to their somewhat relaxed state.  
  
        "You seem stressed," he noted.  
  
        I refrained from rolling my eyes. "Do I?" I mumbled.  
  
        He grinned and brought his head down to give me a kiss. It was short and sweet, simple, but the feeling still made my toes curl. I smiled at him when we separated. He sat up and moved to his knees. "Here, let me help you relax."  
  
        My smile dropped just as my brow furrowed. I looked up at him in mild confusion. He merely leaned over and placed both his hands on my back. Any words that were planning on leaving my mouth were halted in their tracks when he began kneading my shoulders. Instead a light moan came out in their absence. I melded into his touch.  
  
        When he had said he'd help me relax, I wasn't quite sure what he had meant by it, but I hadn't been expecting a massage. But I wasn't disappointed. His hands moved up and down my back, his palms rubbing and kneading in all the right places with just the right amount of pressure. I felt him languidly work out the knots for a bit before he hesitated.  
  
        "Uh, this might work better if your robe was . . . off," he muttered before adding quickly, "Just your back, though."  
  
        Normally I would have objected and demanded that he do what he could with what he had. But his hands had loosened me into pliancy, and I complied, pulling my arms from the sleeves. He slowly tugged the material until it rested by my hips. I felt him lightly trace his fingers down the length of my spine before returning to the massage. The heat radiating from his plams into my muscles elicited another light moan from me. I buried my face in my folded arms and closed my eyes against his soothing ministrations.  
  
        Time ticked by. I couldn't say how long he worked my back, but at some point he had maneuvered to kneel over my hips with one knee on either side, and the new position had given him leverage to really get into it. Small noises continuously emitted from me as I relaxed further and further into his talented touch.  
  
        Sighing in content, I murmured, "How did you get so good with your hands?"  
  
        The hands in question stilled momentarily at my words before resuming their actions. If I hadn't been so out of tune with everything around me, I would have realized what I'd said, and I would have corrected the innuendo. Now I was too far out of it to care. The only thing that mattered was his hands and the magic they were performing on my tense muscles.  
  
        ". . . I'm good with my hands?" he repeated, sounding like he was holding back a laugh. I hummed happily in response. "I'll take that as a compliment."  
  
        "You should," I breathed.  
  
        A hand brushed my damp hair to the side, and he moved, leaning over to press his lips lightly against the back of my neck. I quivered slightly at the ticklish sensation and tittered quietly. My shoulders hunched up as he repeated the action. When he did it again, I huffed and turned my head to the side, an amused smile on my face.  
  
        "Quit that," I giggled.  
  
        Tate hummed against my skin and trailed his lips up the side of my neck until he reached the point just where my jawline ended. My breath hitched as his teeth lightly grazed the sensitive flesh. I felt my eyes flutter shut once more against the tendrils of pleasure that shot throughout my body. His hands grasped the sides of my ribcage with a gentle grip that gradually grew more firm. My fingers curled into the sheets as a delightful shiver rippled through my body.  
  
        Conflicting thoughts and emotions flooded in, and they were at battle, one trying to win out over the other. My mind was at odds with my body. Logically I knew I should stop this before it went any further. Physically, however, I really wanted to keep going. His touch sparked sensations within me that probably shouldn't have even existed. It didn't feel quite right to continue on this path when he wasn't aware of my extending stomach or the reason behind it. But I couldn't muster up the conviction to tell him I didn't want to go any further. Because it would be a definite lie, and I couldn't bring myself to outright lie to him, not when we were both in such vulnerable positions.  
  
        Now was the time to say yes or no. After silently debating for a couple more seconds, I made a snap decision, and I acted on it before I could change my mind.  
  
        It wasn't like anything could really happen this time.  
  
        Tate was taken by surprise when I suddenly rolled onto my back. He lifted himself slightly so I had more room to move, his eyes remaining on mine despite the action having exposed my chest, an unreadable glimmer in his darkened irises. My heart thudded almost painfully against my ribcage as I stared back up at him before taking action again. I gently grabbed his face with my hands and pulled him down for a kiss. Our lips moved together tentatively as though neither of us were positive about the direction this was heading.  
  
        Taking the initiative, I applied more pressure, hardening my mouth against his. My hands slid around to delve into his long hair, my fingers tangling in the strands, gripping them lightly but firmly. He responded by pressing forward eagerly. His fingers trailed up my sides with a feather-like touch, causing me to break the kiss as I giggled in protest to the tickling, a chuckle forth from him when I squirmed underneath him. A grin spread over his face before he captured my mine once more, swallowing the moan that escaped me when his hands found my exposed breasts, his calloused palms creating a pleasing friction. I arched into his touch.  
  
        A rush of heat shot through my abdomen and settled between my thighs. Eager to satiate it, I caught his bottom lip between my teeth, eliciting a surprised groan from him. The sound vibrated against my lips and encouraged me to tug lightly before allowing the pink flesh to roll free. He trailed kisses from my mouth and down the slope of my neck before focusing on my collarbone. The combination of nipping and sucking was guaranteed to leave a mark behind, but in the moment, I could care less. It wasn't like it was in a spot I couldn't keep covered.  
  
        I carded my fingers through his hair as he moved lower down my body. His hands wandered along my waist and torso. My abdominal muscles clenched in response when they skimmed over my stomach before finding the sash that kept my robe still partly closed. The length of cloth was untied with a few flicks of his wrist, causing the material to fall aside, fully exposing my front. Delightful heat followed wherever his skin came into contact with mine.  
  
        Tate had too many clothes on. There I was, fully nude, and he hadn't taken anything of his own off yet. Huffing, I fisted the back of his shirt, tugging on it to pull it over his head. He chuckled something about me being impatient, causing me to glare slightly at him, before he sat up and helped me, dropping the article on the floor as his top half was bared to me. I reached for his jeans.  
  
        His hand shot out and wrapped around my wrist, preventing me from working on the button. He shook his head. "Not yet," he ordered gently. I frowned in confusion, staring up at him in concern, wondering what was wrong. He didn't leave me wondering for long.  
  
        A small squeak burst forth when Tate slipped down to kneel at the edge of the bed, grabbing my hips and dragging me down the mattress until he was buried between my thighs, his hands splaying across my pelvis. My back arched off the bed at the new sensation. I'd never given it much thought before, but I'd assumed that this wouldn't be much different from a hand performing with the same intent, and I was now discovering that I was completely wrong in that assumption. The combination of mouth and fingers was gifting me with spikes of pleasure that had my hips rolling underneath his firm hold and my hands wound tightly within his hair.  
  
        Tate teased me for a good while. There was no way of me knowing how long, and I was honestly too immersed in the sensations to care, but it was much too long for my liking. Throughout all his ministrations, he never once allowed me to fall apart, constantly bringing me to the precipice only to retreat at the last minute and leave me hanging. Tears of frustration welled up in my eyes as he left me to once again back away from the brink. I gasped out an expletive in response. From the amusement that sounded in return he knew the profanity was directed towards him.  
  
        His ministrations had aroused me more than anything had before. Which would be wonderful if he'd just let me find release from the pressure that had built up into a coil of unattended frustration. Finally I yanked on his hair and pulled him away, swinging my body up and around until I was kneeling on the mattress in front of him, causing him to stand as my hands once again moved towards his jeans. This time he didn't stop me from hurriedly undoing the button, allowing me to push both layers of fabric past his hips and stepping out of them, kicking off his socks and shoes in the process, leaving us both exposed and vulnerable to each other.  
  
        I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck and brought him down for our mouths to meld together. He pressed forward, his mouth hardening against mine as he crawled up the mattress, forcing me to move backwards to allow us both enough room. His hips slid in effortlessly between my legs. But instead of giving me what I wanted, what I _needed_ , he continued to tease me, rocking his hips against mine without actually entering me. My nails dug into his skin in retaliation, my hips bucking up against his in a desperate attempt to relieve the hungry ache, and he responded by clamping his teeth down on my bottom lip, provoking a quiet yelp from me as he tugged harshly enough to draw small beads of blood.  
  
        At the noise, he retreated, staring down at me with guilt shining in the lust-darkened irises of his eyes. "Sorry --"  
  
        "Just shut up," I groaned, hooking a single leg around his waist and using that as leverage to flip us over, releasing a low moan as we came together, "God, fucking finally . . ."  
  
        My impatient frustration caused Tate's chest to rumble with silent laughter that ceased when I began moving atop him. My movements were painstakingly slow. I closed my eyes to focus on the pleasurable sensation. The last time I was with Tate I had been doped up on Xanax. And, much like I realized at the beach, the medicine had dulled my senses. Now it was like I really was experiencing it for the first time, and as frustrated as I'd become with his teasing, I wanted to savor it.  
  
        Tate was gazing up at me when I opened my eyes again. He splayed his hands across my back and brought me down so our noses were only an inch apart. The level of intimacy this gesture held, so deep it was almost frightening, had my heart pounding more than the physical exertion did. It encouraged me to gradually increase the speed of my hips as they moved against his.  
  
        He nuzzled me with his nose. "I love you," he murmured.  
  
        Biting my lip, I was able to return the soft confession before being interrupted by a low moan, and I reached down to capture his mouth, pouring all of my passion into the kiss. His hands smoothed over my ribs and waist before slipping under the curve of my bottom as my movements sped. He used the grip to lift me slightly and increase his leverage.  
  
        His previous ministrations had made it so it wasn't long before I was chasing my release. Just when I was about to finally fall apart, he slid a hand between us to stroke the small bundle of sensitive nerves nestled at the top of the apex of my thighs, effectively pushing me over the precipice into an explosion that had even the tips of my fingers were tingling. I cried out his name as he used my distraction to thrust into me, prolonging my pleasure before reaching his own, his hands tightening into a firm hold as he stilled our hips and kept us connected while we panted through the rush of endorphins.  
  
        Releasing a contented sigh, I slumped on top of him, burying my face into his neck. His arms hooked around my waist, and I felt his lips come against the skin of my shoulder, placing a tender kiss there while I tried to regulate my breathing. He seemed to be doing exceedingly well on oxygen. Perhaps it was because he no longer needed it due to his state of mortality.  
  
        A light shudder ran through me at the reminder. Sometimes it was hard to forget that he was dead. He just seemed so alive to me. But when I thought about it, it was almost like necrophilia, in a way. It wasn't really his body, more of a corporeal manifestion of his spirit, but no matter how you looked at it, he was still  _dead_.  
  
        It was slightly disturbing, but out of everything I've already been subjected to, it didn't bother me as much as it once would have.  
  
        "So," Tate spoke, lightly dragging his fingers up and down the length of my spine, his voice quiet as so to not break the peace, "Where is everyone?"  
  
        I huffed out a few breathless laughs and rolled onto my side next to him, my legs tangling slightly with his. Throwing my arm around his torso and resting my head on his chest, I snorted, " _Now_  you're worried about that?"  
  
        "You distracted me before."  
  
        "You started it." I peered up at him with a small smile when he chuckled lightly, neither confirming nor denying it -- we both knew it was true. "They're all out anyway," I answered. "Mom and Violet are doing something, I guess, and Ben is probably at his place."  
  
        Tate hummed in indication he heard me. His teeth toyed with his bottom lip as he continued to gaze down at me. It was obvious he had something else to say, but he either didn't know how to or didn't know if he should. I frowned and asked him what was wrong. He was the type who typically spoke his mind a lot of the time, at least that was the impression I got from him considering all he's said to me since I've known him, so it was more than a little worrisome when he didn't look sure about what he wanted to say.  
  
        When he still didn't say anything, still looking conflicted, I repeated my question firmly, allowing the concern to seep into my tone. He sighed through his nose and pulled me closer to him. "Nothing, I was just -- I was just wondering how things were going, with your father."  
  
        My frown became more pronounced. That was something I didn't particularly like thinking about. He'd plagued my mind with ill thoughts since Boston, but here recently, it was more than just anger and disgust that effected me. It was guilt and regret. Whenever I thought of my father, I thought about what I said to him, how deep those three words had cut him. And I also thought of how I couldn't bring myself to take them back.  
  
        I lifted my shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, looking back down at my hand lying on his chest, my fingers tracing a lazy pattern across the expanse of skin. "Same as always. You know -- fine," I muttered. His chest vibrated with another hum. This one was disbelieving.  
  
        I didn't blame him for not buying it. It was obvious things weren't fine. Nothing was fine between us.  
  
        My chest heaved with a hefty sigh. His hold on me tightened protectively, reassuringly. Tucking my lip into my mouth, I spoke again before he could, my voice just as low. "Am I a bad person?"  
  
        "What?"  
  
        "Do you think I'm a bad person?"  
  
        That was a question that had been on my mind for a while now. It wasn't a matter of whether or not I was a bad person. I knew damn well I was, or at least I knew I wasn't a good one. But I wanted to know if _he_ thought I was. It wasn't really something I could explain to myself. If I knew I was, then there should be no point in asking him if I was, but it was just something I wanted to know. I didn't know which answer I was waiting to hear either. Again, it shouldn't have mattered, but it did. I guess it was just a case of if he didn't think I was, then maybe I'd just convinced myself I was when I wasn't, but if he thought I was, then I really _was_ a horrible person.  
  
        Both my mind and my emotions were a mess lately.  
  
        "Of course not," Tate replied, confusion lacing his tone, "Why would you ask me that?"  
  
        "I don't know. I just . . ." I trailed off with a sigh, tilting my head to peer up at him. "It can't all be shit, right? I mean, there's got to be someplace better, somewhere. Right?"  
  
        Tate returned my gaze with a steady one of his own. He was frowning, but other than that, his expression was virtually unreadable. Even his eyes had masked themselves to conceal his emotions. His arm tightened around me marginally, the hand resting on my side becoming just a little firmer, his fingers twitching sporadically on the bare flesh. His name fell from my lips in a soft prompting. He blinked and shook his head, almost as though he were trying to clear unwanted thoughts.  
  
        "I suppose," he answered uncertainly, exhaling heavily, "For people like you, at least."  
  
        "Not you?"  
  
        Tate leaned down and placed a tender kiss to the top of my head. "Ever since you got here, Abbie, _this_ is the better place," he mumbled into my hair. A frown tugged at my lips, but I didn't comment and just settled back into him, resting my cheek against my hand on his chest.  
  
        I felt like I was cheating him. More than I actually was. Any other girl would have been thrilled to hear that, or anything along those lines, really. But I felt the same way I did when he first told me he loved me. It was disingenuous. He shouldn't feel that way about me. Yet he did, because he didn't know what I was doing to him, he didn't know I was being insincere. He didn't know what I was keeping from him. What I needed to tell him.  
  
        My stomach fluttered as anxiety flooded my system. I chewed furiously on my lip. Now was the time to tell him. It had to be done, and however he reacted, good or bad, I was just going to have to accept it. I swallowed hard and opened my mouth to tell him, to say those two words that every sexually active teenage boy dreaded, before closing it again.  
  
        I couldn't do it.  
  
        I'd keep it to myself for just a while longer. Just for the rest of today. Then tomorrow I would tell him. Tomorrow I would tell everyone. But I wanted to keep it a secret for just one more day.  
  
        That was a surprisingly easy task to accomplish. Despite the time that had gone by since Violet found out, which was just a little over a week, I'd been expecting her to tell someone out of pure spite. I'd been preparing myself for it. But so far she'd managed to keep her mouth shut about it. That didn't stop me from anticipating it.  
  
        If she  _had_  told our parents, the day would have been ruined for me, right from the moment she and Mom got home. Thankfully I had decided to get up and dressed long before they did. They returned around noon with hefty bags of groceries. Within those groceries were the ingredients for a quick Thanksgiving meal preparation. I'd been somewhat taken aback, but I'd gladly helped out in the kitchen.  
  
        Mom busied herself with preparing the cornish game hens we were having in lieu of turkey, and when those were in the oven, she worked on the skillet apple stuffing and the cheesy roasted sweet potatoes. The gingery cranberry relish and wilted spinach with raisins and pistachios were the dishes I had been tasked with preparing. Violet did her part, albeit it was small; she begrudingly peeled and sliced the fruit for the fruit salad before escaping to her room, leaving us to finish the rest together.  
  
        The time we spent in the kitchen did a wonder in lifting my spirits. Mom and I hadn't talked a lot recently, and I missed her. Suddenly it was as though everything was okay again, like it was all back to the way it used to be, back to normal. We fell back into a comfort zone with each other. Mom always had been most at ease in the kitchen, and now that she had immersed herself in cooking for an afternoon, she finally looked relaxed. She was finally enjoying herself. We were able to talk and joke and goof around, and if I was being honest, it made me a little emotional. Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones kicking in again, but spending that time with her, talking to her and spending time together like we used to, it brought back a lot of good memories for me.  
  
        By the time we had started on dessert, I taking over the pear cornmeal cake and she tackling the complementary rosemary syrup, I had almost forgotten that we were no longer back home in Boston, back when things were good. But I was reminded of my current location when she mentioned that she had gone ahead and invited Ben to dinner just as I was folding in the pears. I tried not to express any of the disapproval that the sentence evoked. If she wanted Ben over for dinner, maybe that meant they were going to actually try and confront their issues and talk about everything, and I was all for that. As long as Mom was happy.  
  
        Things got awkward again very quickly when Ben arrived. The natural, easy flow of the chatter Mom and I had built up had dissipated with the new presence, even if we weren't all occupying the same room. And, if it was possible, it got even _more_ awkward when it was actually time to sit down and eat. Each dish had been left in the kitchen in order to provide us enough room at the table, which granted us with perfect, unobstructed views of each other, a lovely addition to a family dinner if you weren't actively trying to look everywhere but at each other. Our gazes transferred uncomfortably between our plates and our company.  
  
        "You're not eating anything," Mom commented.  
  
        I finally looked up as the silence was broken. My eyes landed on Mom, who was looking towards Violet, and then Ben, who was looking the same way. Identical expressions of worry and concern were etched on their faces. I followed their lead and looked towards my sister. Her own gaze was fixated on her plate. She was pushing her food around with her fork.  
  
        "I'm not hungry," she muttered, before glancing up sharply, adding spitefully, "Pretty stuffed on bullshit."  
  
        Her eyes briefly slid over to me before dropping back down to her plate. I pressed my lips together in a thin line and averted my gaze.  
  
        Ben sighed. "Your mother and I know that you're upset," he prompted softly. "Maybe there's some things you want to talk about." To my ears, his tone almost came off as condescending, even though I knew he didn't mean it that way. But it was like he was talking down to her, or just talking to her like she was a child, and by the way she sneered at his tone, I could see she felt that way too.  
  
        "Like who I'm going to live with after you get divorced?" Her lips twisted into a humorless smirk. "Is there a third option? 'Cause both of you kind of make me want to kill myself. Is that what you guys are afraid of?" My grip tightened minutely around my fork at the conversation; it was no secret that Violet was having a hard time with everything, we all were, but to hear her talk of killing herself made my heart lurch. "Why else would you want to try to actually deal with the problem?"  
  
        "You never leave your room," Mom put in worriedly. "You barely eat."  
  
        "These are textbook signs of depression," Ben interjected solemnly. "We're very concerned, Vi."  
  
        My eyes hovered over my sister as I carefully spectated the situation. _Depression_. That certainly explained a lot. I didn’t know why that thought never even occurred to me. All I'd seen was an ungrateful brat that had taken the place of my little sister. A teenager who didn't care about anything, who put on an act for attention. But I'd never stopped to consider why that was, what the true reason behind that might be.  
  
        Violet gave a hefty roll of her eyes. She pushed her chair away from the table and stood, striding towards the doorway before pausing and turning back around to face us. Her sharp gaze locked on our parents. "Look, you guys drag me all the way out here to save our family, then you decide to break up. You buy a house that I actually like, then you're telling me you're selling it, without even asking me what I want. So, fine, I'm depressed. But I'm not going to off myself. So you can go back to your policy of benign neglect that let  _her_  get pregnant."  
  
        She disappeared around the corner, leaving me alone with Mom and Ben, who now were both staring at me. I slumped down in my seat and fixed my gaze on my plate. My widened eyes watched my fork poke at my food as I avoided making eye contact with either parent.  
  
        "Abbie?" Mom prompted, her tone conveying shock. "Are you pregnant?"  
  
        A cold chill broke out over my skin in response to the feeling of ice being injected into my bloodstream. My heart was pounding so loud that I was almost positive they could hear it. I didn't want to answer. I wasn't _ready_ to answer. Earlier when I had chickened out of telling Tate I had decided to tell them tomorrow. No one else was supposed to find out before then. Now Violet had gone and done the very thing I had been worried about since _she_ found out. She told our parents.  
  
        "Abigail," Ben asserted when I remained silent, "Look at us." He waited until I glanced up from my plate to meet the varied expressions of my parents. When he realized I was paying attention, he repeated firmly, " _Are you pregnant_?"  
  
        I wanted to stay quiet. I wanted to be able to lie and make a quick escape to my room. I wanted to be anywhere but here in this particular circumstance. But I knew I couldn't do that. It had come out, and I had to own up to it. It would only get worse if I didn't.  
  
        So I took a deep breath and nodded my head.  
  
        Mom sucked in a soft gasp, disbelief written all over her face. Ben pinched his lips together, and if I looked close enough, I was nearly convinced I could see steam rolling from his ears. He was genuinely angered by it. Not that I blamed him. If I were my parent, I'd probably be mad at me, too. This was probably one of the only things I actually agreed with Ben on.  
  
        'How -- how far along?" Mom questioned quietly.  
  
        The mundane question did nothing to ease my frayed nerves. It was the calm before the storm. I knew how they usually operated when something with their children happened. They never jumped right in with the scolding or the yelling or the punishment. They worked their way up to it. It was like they had to get their bearings and recover from the stun of the blow before they were able to fully operate. My entire frame was tensed in preparation for the moment they finally processed what I had said.  
  
        "About eight weeks," I admitted.  
  
        "And . . . who's the father?"  
  
        ". . . Tate."  
  
        Mom glanced over at Ben, clearly at a loss as to how to properly react. Ben's expression grew tighter and less restrained at the name of his patient. It wasn't anything less than I had expected. He hadn't wanted me hanging with him in the first place.  
  
        "Tate?" Ben reiterated, looking at me for clarification that I was sure he didn't need. "Tate _Langdon_? My _patient_?" Tucking my lip into my mouth, I gave a subtle nod, bracing myself for what I knew was about to come. He gave a short, humorless laugh, clearly meant to convey derision. "Abigail, how could you be so _stupid_?"  
  
        I was willing to admit that any derision, even coming from him, was nothing more than I deserved. And I did agree with him on that, I _had_ been incredibly stupid, but even so, hearing those words fall from his lips like he had done absolutely nothing wrong before in his entire life was enough to replace the icy feeling in my veins with the heat of irritation. Even though I knew I deserved to be yelled at, or however this situation was going to be handled by them initially, it didn't feel fair for _him_ to be the one doing it. Not when he wasn't even living with us anymore, and definitely not when he had gone and gotten his student pregnant.  
  
        But I managed to hold my tongue for now.  
  
        Mom spoke his name softly, trying to diffuse some of his anger towards me, and maybe trying to get him to take a more objective look on the situation. He wasn't paying attention her though. His focus was solely on me and how I had completely fucked up my life in the heat of a moment.  
  
        "I told you to stay away from that boy. God, I thought you were smarter than that. Do you even _realize_ the repercussions of this? How everything you've worked so hard for is now _ruined_? And what about the family, huh? Did you even think about what it might do to this family?"  
  
        I was relatively all right until that last bit.  
  
        "Are you serious?" I snipped, letting out a short, humorless laugh of my own. "What _my_ pregnancy might do to this family?" I rolled my eyes and shook my head, a grim smile still on my face. "At least _mine_ didn't stem from cheating on my wife and abandoning my family during their time of need."  
  
        "Abbie --"  
  
        "We're not talking about me," Ben persisted, cutting Mom off from what I was sure was a reprimand, "We're talking about you."  
  
        "Of course we aren't. We never talk about you. We never talk about _anything_. This wouldn't have even happened if this family could just fucking talk about _something_ every once in a while."  
  
        "Hey!" Ben's voice rose to a near shouting level, briefly startling me as I hadn't been expecting it to get that loud that soon. "Watch your language! And don't you talk to me that way, Abigail Ruth, I am tired of your disrespect!"  
  
        "The only one I'm disrespectful towards is _you_ , Ben, and until you finally do something that warrants my respect, that's not going to change."  
  
        My voice had maintained a normal, yet sharp, level despite my blood boiling with the rising vexation. This argument had quickly turned away from the fact that I was pregnant, and it was now seemingly focused on respect. I _was_ disrespectful towards Ben, exceedingly so, but I stood by my statement. Respect was something you earned. Until Ben finally proved he was worthy of my respect again, I wasn't going to give it to him.  
  
        Mom stood from her seat and looked sternly between the both of us. "Ben, Abigail, that is enough. Now let's just calm down and --"  
  
        Once again, Ben interrupted her. "Fine, Abigail. If you won't respect me . . . then you can leave," he ordered.  
  
        I stared at him skeptically. Mom sighed and tried once again to diffuse the tension that had quickly accumulated within the dining room. Lips pursed, I ask, "And what exactly do you mean by 'leave,' Ben?"  
  
        "You will respect me under my roof. If you won't, then you are no longer welcome in this house."  
  
        "Ben!" Mom gasped furiously. "You can't kick her out!"  
  
        "You don't even live here anymore," I pointed out, standing up and crossing my arms, glaring down at him. "If anyone's gonna kick me out, it's going to be Mom. You have no authority if you don't live here."  
  
        Ben copied my movements and stood from the table. "Just because I don't live here doesn't mean I have no say, Abigail. The house is still under my name, and I am still your father." He sighed. "Abigail, I don't want to do this, but you're leaving me with no other choice," he reasoned.  
  
        My eyes switched over to Mom, who looked torn about what to do. She transferred her gaze between us as she took it all in. Her distressed expression showed me that her mind was trying to compute everything and come to a proper response. However, she took much too long for my liking, and hurt coursed through me when she didn't say anything. I never wanted to put her between Ben and me, but weren't mothers supposed to choose their children over their husbands? The fact that she wasn't immediately standing up for me, arguing that he wasn't going to make me leave my own house, stung a fair bit.  
  
        "Fine. You don't want me here, I'm gone," I spat, kicking the chair out of my way. "This family is a fucking nightmare anyway."  
  
        Tears pricked at my eyes, but I forcefully blinked them away. They weren't going to see how much I was hurting. They weren't going to get that satisfaction. Instead I stormed out of the dining room and through the foyer. Mom's voice called after me pleadingly, and I heard her feet hurriedly carrying her across the floor, but I didn't want to talk to her right now. I didn't even think I could look at her.  
  
        I could understand her being upset with me, or totally angry, but to not say anything when your husband kicks your daughter out? When your pregnant teenager is made to leave the house with nowhere else to go? She objected _once_ , and then she just let Ben have his way.  
  
        My hand reached up and plucked my clutch from the coat rack. I couldn't stand being in that house for a moment longer after that. My phone was in my pocket, my keys and wallet were in the clutch, and I had a spare charger in my car -- clothes were just something I would have to figure out later.  
  
        Mom very nearly jogged out into the foyer. Her hand rested protectively on the swell of her own stomach, her other one reaching out to grab my arm as she pleaded with me, begging me to stay and work things out. I stared at her in disbelief and shook my head.  
  
        "There's nothing to work out. Clearly I'm just a burden on everyone here. Consider me leaving a favor." I shook her off and threw open the front door. "And consider it your last one. I'm done putting up with all the bullshit." Ben stepped out into the foyer, and my upper lip curled into a sneer. "You can all just go to Hell."  
  
        The door slammed shut behind me as I stalked to my car. As I slid behind the wheel and turned over the engine, dutifully ignoring my mother's pleas as she ran out onto the porch, my eyes hovered over to the neighbor's house upon noticing the appearance of a sliver of light. The curtains had been peeled back, and a face was peering out at the scene. I clenched my jaw and threw my car into gear.  
  
        Even on Thanksgiving, the L.A. nightlife was active. Clubs had good business, and there really wasn't a single street corner that wasn't occupied by scantily clad women. The lights flew by as my car sped through the traffic lights at the appropriate times and speed. My messy mind was a whirlwind. I tried to focus primarily on finding a place to stay, but I couldn't keep my thoughts quiet enough to make an efficient enough search, leading me to pass by at least three hotels before I even realized it.  
  
        When I finally forced everything back to my mind, I pulled up to the first one that I spotted. It was an older building. The bricks were faded and showed signs of weather-induced wear and tear. But it still managed to hold an air of elegance about it. I fingered the strap of my clutch as I stared uncertainly up at the neon sign hanging above my head. The fluorescent lettering stood out in a flash of red and a dulled yellow color against the night.  
  
        I sighed heavily and crossed the threshold from the sidewalk into the Hotel Cortez.

* * *

**And I'd like to think that this is where things get interesting! I am honestly so excited to write these next parts. I won't give anything away, hopefully, but the time spent at the infamous Hotel Cortez is a major event in the entirety of Abbie's story.**   
  
**As for the intimate scene at the beginning, I wasn't originally going to have that in there, but I ended up going with it because I decided to give Tabbie a nice time together since Abbie was getting kicked out -- and who knows for how long she'll stay away? ;)**   
  
**If anyone is interested in reading more stories with Tate as the love interest, then please check out Weisse Frauen's profile! 'Your Dirty Love' and 'Devil in Me' are two of the best Tate stories I've found. I promise you won't be disappointed!**


	25. Checking In

I was floored by the atmospheric change.  
  
        The exterior of the hotel was nothing compared to the interior. It was as though I had stepped through a portal into another era. My eyes gladly took in the marvelous change in scenery. The carpet was a rich red and separated into interconnecting octagons with black outlines and golden in-lines. Sitting in the middle of the spacious lobby were burgundy sofas and chairs, and two small wooden tables between. Hanging above were gorgeous light fixtures that, if I wasn't mistaken, were made of Tiffany glass like the ones back at the house. A skylight ran across the ceiling before plunging down the far wall. The walls were an elegant golden hue. On the furthest wall were two staircases. They led up to a middle platform before separating once more and leading up to two upper levels that connected around the front. In between the stairs was an elevator.  
  
        Suddenly I was worried that the price of a room here would be way out of my range. It looked like the kind of hotel that celebrities often frequented, filled with luxuries only the wealthy could enjoy. I was barely three feet inside the establishment, yet I felt the increasing need to turn around and leave, pretend like I was never there. Many emotions swarmed me as I gathered my bearings. Self-consciousness, inadequacy, slight embarrassment. I felt extremely out of place, and I was positive I looked it, too.  
  
        Lana and Marion picked the right holiday to spend in Michigan. If I could just find a place to stay until they returned, I would be fine. Hopefully.  
  
        Biting my lips, I pressed forward, my feet carrying me across the elegant carpeting to the counter situated to the left of the lobby. There was no one to be seen, but there was a door at the back, closed next to the collection of room mailboxes. Definitely old-fashioned, but it fit the theme of the establishment, and it only added to the feel of being transported back to a grander time. I hesitantly reached out and tapped the bell sitting on the counter. The resulting chime echoed eerily through the empty space.  
  
        The distinct feel of eyes on my back prompted me to tense involuntarily and swivel my head to glance over my shoulder. Of course nothing was there. But just as I was about to look away, movement in my peripheral vision caught my eyes, encouraging me to turn my gaze upwards. Someone had just pushed away from the railing to walk the opposite direction. All I managed to glimpse was a pinstriped suit stretched across broad shoulders, a cane gripped in a hand, and a black bowler hat. A weird sensation stirred in my stomach at the fleeting image.  
  
        "Can I help you?"  
  
        My attention was pulled away from the upper level by the jaded voice. I looked back at the desk to see myself staring at an older woman. She was short and broad in stature, and practically dressed in what I assumed was the required uniform, complete with a pair of distinctly large corrective glasses over wizened blue eyes. Her salt and pepper hair -- possibly once brown? -- and aged appearance placed her within her fifties or sixties. A frown was prominent on her mouth as she waited for a response.  
  
        I gingerly reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair back behind my ear. "Yes, uh, I was wondering what your rates are?"  
  
        "Eighty-nine dollars a night."  
  
        The cost provoked a visible cringe from me. It wasn't so much in the grand scheme of things, I supposed, but for someone who worked part-time for fifty cents over minimum wage, it could create a dent in the long run. There were probably cheaper hotels in the area. But they were probably lesser quality as well. And the price for this one was pretty decent considering the establishment's grandeur.  
  
        Plus, it was getting late, and I didn't really want to drive around in search of another one. So I sighed and made my decision.  
  
        "All right, uh, I'd like a room then, please," I requested.  
  
        She nodded and reached underneath the counter, producing a large guest book that she opened to the first available page. "Sign here," she instructed curtly, pointing at an empty line. I received the pen she handed over, dutifully doing as she said, feeling her sharp eyes on me the whole time. When I was done, I set the pen down. "How long will you be staying with us?" she drawled, sounding as though that line had been recited so many times she had grown bored of it, but she still had to ask. She reached  behind her and plucked a key from a board of them placed practically next to the corresponding mailboxes.  
  
        "Oh, uh . . ." I trailed off, biting my lip lightly in thought, before admitting reluctantly, "I don't know, really, a few nights maybe?"  
  
        Her lips pursed at my vague response. I shifted uncomfortably, briefly averting my gaze. It felt like she could see straight down into my very soul, rummage through my innermost secrets, and analyze every aspect of my character and history just from a single glance. Not unlike Adelaide's piercing stare, it made me feel naked and vulnerable, as though I were baring all to her.  
  
        She handed over the key. "You'll be staying in Room Sixty-Four."  
  
        "Thank you," I accepted.  
  
        I felt her eyes trained on me as I crossed the lobby towards the elevator. It was an unpleasant sensation knowing that someone was watching you. Though I supposed it was better than having the feeling and there not be anyone there. Though that was a particular one I had become accustomed to since the move. It didn't make it any more pleasant, but I didn't dwell on it too much anymore, I didn't give it much thought. But I did notice the difference when I was away from the house. The change in atmosphere was almost like stepping out from a crowded closet into an unpopulated open area.  
  
        When the elevator doors slid open, I was surprised to find someone already using the space, someone who looked as though he belonged in the hotel but were from another time period entirely. Everything about the man was oddly immaculate. His pinstriped suit was perfectly tailored to his lean yet built physique. The vest was complete with an ascot tucked into the collar and a golden pocket watch. A black derby hat sat proudly atop his head, and an ornate walking stick was clutched confidently in his palm. His black dress shoes were polished meticulously.  
  
        My eyes wandered over his attire before fixing on his face. A frown touched my lips as I took in the details. He reminded me of a young Clark Gable or Vincent Price. A thin, manicured mustache nestled perfectly above his lips, which were currently curled into a pleased, close-lipped smile. Hypnotic brown eyes glinted under the gorgeous artificial lighting. He was strangely handsome despite the old-fashioned attire.  
  
        A strange feeling of vague recognition washed over me, but much to my annoyance, I couldn't place him. And I was positive that I would have remembered this specific individual had we previously crossed paths.  
  
        "Ah, good evening," he greeted cheerfully, "Going up?"  
  
        His accent was just as odd as the rest of him. It was undeniably Transatlantic, much like the ones the actors in the older black and white films had, the talkies from the late twenties and thirties. But it sounded more like it originated from the New England area, like a Bostonian Brahmin accent mixed with a Mid-Atlantic. It was a strange combination that somehow managed to suit the man. But it picked at something within my memory that just refused to come out of its hiding spot within the shadows of my brain.  
  
        Realizing I had been standing there staring at the man, I blinked to refocus my mind and cleared my throat quietly, stepping into the elevator. "Yes, please, sixth floor," I responded, offering up a small smile. He waited until I was beside him before pressing the appropriate button. The doors slid closed, cutting off my view of the lobby, and the elevator began ascending smoothly.  
  
        I stayed as close to my side as I could without seeming rude. Riding in elevators with strangers had never sat well with me. It was the invasion of personal space by an unknown individual that made it uncomfortable in my opinion. You were confined in a limited area with someone you had literally never met before. There was no telling who they were or what their hobbies were. For all you knew, you could be in close proximity with a serial killer, and you could very well end up being the next victim.  
  
        This man didn't make me uneasy in that sense though. It was something different. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I tried to take my mind off of it by examining my room key. The key itself was a dark golden color, possibly brass, with a round head. Attached to it was a tag, and I couldn't help but trace the tip of my forefinger along the faded metal, eyeing the overlapping  _'H'_ and _'C'_ in the middle. Looped through a tiny hole at the top was a bright red ribbon used to hang them up on the board. I actually rather enjoyed the aesthetics of the item, and I made a mental note to take a picture of it with my phone when I got to my home, sort of like a souvenir.  
  
        I might as well gain something positive out of this ordeal, right? Even if it was just a mere photo of a key.  
  
        "Forgive me for being so bold, my dear," the man spoke, "But you are much too beautiful to be displaying such despondence."  
  
        My anxiety hitched half a notch at his voice. Silent rides were uncomfortable, yes, but I preferred them over forced conversation. Talking with strangers was something I had never enjoyed. The term _'stranger danger'_ still held meaning for me. You never knew for sure who someone was. They could be genuinely polite and friendly, or they could just be trying to avoid suspicion, strategically luring you into their spider's web. This man was no different. He could have been anybody. And something about this man put me on edge. It was a small feeling, just the slightest prick of intuition, but it was enough to have me on guard.  
  
        His intriguing eyes were focused on me when I glanced over to him. "I'm sorry?"  
  
        "You have an air about you, darling, it is woefully apparent that you are unhappy. A fine young lady such as yourself should be filled with joy." He tilted his head towards me. "Might I suggest sharing your woes? I myself find comfort in lamenting to others."  
  
        If I thought his accent was odd, it was nothing compared to how he actually talked. His words were those considered almost archaic in today's limited vocabulary. Today if someone were to talk like he was they were liable to get beat up for their peculiar formality. Even the wealthiest of the elite didn't talk like that anymore, at least not to my knowledge; it wasn't like I exactly knew any wealthy individuals. But it reminded me of the older films or stories that took place in older time periods, and I'd always been fond of their vernacular and pattern of speech, I'd always thought it sounded more sophisticated. It was considerably more than all the ridiculous slang you heard thrown around today.  
  
        However, the fact that a complete stranger was asking me to share my troubles with him was a bit unnerving, and if I were being somewhat honest with myself, it was 'lamenting to others' that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.  
  
        "I don't 'lament' to strangers," I returned curtly, anxious to reach my floor, wanting nothing more than to just call it a night and figure everything out in the morning, "But thanks for the offer."  
  
        He was not put off by my admittedly impolite disinterest. His smile broadened into a grin. "I suppose we'll just have to get better acquainted then." He held out his hand towards me. "The name's James March, and I own this fine establishment," he introduced.  
  
        I eyed his hand with unease. Something was not right about this man. He was undeniably charming, and rather handsome, but I was growing increasingly uncomfortable the longer I was in his presence. It was nothing obvious or outwardly about him that put me on edge. But it was more than just being within a confined space with someone I hadn't even known existed up until now. It was like he just exuded these vibes that warned others to keep a safe distance from him.  
  
        Or maybe I was just stressed because of everything that had happened and was overthinking every single little thing that came my way as a result. I mean, he seemed nice enough. He even offered to listen to me rant and talk through what was bothering me. How upset must I look for him to be able to pick up on that? I supposed the civil thing to do would be to shake his hand and introduce myself. How bad could he be, really?  
  
        Sighing through my nose, I slipped my hand into his, forcing a polite smile onto my face. "Abigail," I stated. I purposefully left off my surname. That was too much information to hand out to a man I had only just met, respectable hotel owner or not.  
  
        "A lovely name for a lovely lady," he complimented.  
  
        Instead of shaking my hand like I expected, he lightly took hold of my fingers and brought them up, leaning his head down the rest of the way to press his lips to my knuckles. My breathing hitched in my throat at the sudden gesture, my eyes widening minutely in surprise. Much to my dismay, I felt a warm heat flare underneath my skin, no doubt flushing my cheeks a brilliant red. His alluring gaze remained locked on mine, taking in my reaction.  
  
        His grin had broadened further when he released my hand and straightened back up. I let my arm fall limply back to my side. My tongue darted out to wet my lips as I tried to think coherently. That one gesture had turned my mind to complete mush. Whatever small cogs had been turning, most having rusted and stalled as a result of all the stress I had been put through recently, had slowed to a stop. Such an insignificant gesture had left me properly flustered, and by the way his lips pushed up confidently, he knew it too.  
  
        My mind really must have been in shambles if that was all it took for it to stop functioning all together.  
  
        "Uh," I managed to force past my lips, clearing my throat to mutter, "Thanks."  
  
        Quickly averting my gaze to avoid further making a fool of myself, I inhaled deeply through my nose and tried to recollect myself, to rewire my thoughts into something just coherent enough for me to think properly. The action ended up wafting in a faint scent of what I assumed to be his cologne. It was subtle yet present. My nose picked up on a more Oriental combination of what smelled like vanilla and cinnamon mixed with a spicier element I couldn't name. It was actually quite an intoxicating fragrance.  
  
        I didn't know why I hadn't caught whiff of that earlier, but now it proved to be an obstacle towards getting my mind back on the right track. It more or less overwhelmed my senses. Maybe my nose was just becoming more sensitive as a result of the pregnancy, something I had heard of happening to some women, and I had just been so preoccupied that I hadn't noticed until my brain had essentially shut down. Whatever the reason, I couldn't say I was terribly happy with it, considering it proved to just be an obstacle.  
  
        The elevator finally came to a stop. A near silent gust of air left me as I waited for the doors to slide open. That had to have been the longest elevator ride I'd ever taken. It had only been six floors, it shouldn't have taken as long as it had, but I supposed it could run a little slow given it was probably an older model. Or the tension within had just made it _seem_ longer than it actually was. Either way, I was relieved it was finally over, and I could escape this situation to deal with the more pressing one.  
  
        "Well, my dear, it would appear that fate has conspired against us, as this is where you must take your leave," James stated, tilting his head towards me, a grin fixed in place. "However, if you wouldn't be opposed to the company, I should like to escort you to your door to ensure that you don't lose your way."  
  
        A frown touched my lips. That was not a comforting offer. It would have been declined instantly had he merely offered to walk me to my room and forfeited the reason. To justify it with the insinuation that I might not make it to my room otherwise was severely unnerving. It brought forth the fact that this man was a virtual stranger to me with renewed fervor. Not to mention his words, said in that formal pattern of speech of his, granted me with the vague feeling that I was talking to Jack the Ripper.  
  
        Needless to say, that was not a comforting feeling to have, but it did suit the overall theme of my evening.  
  
        I casted him a sideways glance. "I think I'm capable of navigating a hallway without getting lost," I quipped.  
  
        My blatant discomfort continued to go either unnoticed or ignored by the peculiar man. He nodded his head at my words before responding with what he apparently thought was appropriate. "Of that I have no doubt, my dear, as you appear to be a clever girl. However, the dark corridor leading up to your door can prove to be quite the daunting journey on your first visit; one never knows what may lurk behind the corner or what horrors we may encounter along the way," he said. His eyes remained on me during his dramatic speech, the darker edge to his tone sending a chill down my spine. My unease only grew.  
  
        Relief washed over me when the elevator doors finally opened to reveal the hallway in question. I couldn't properly display how glad I was to be free of that enclosed space. My chest lifted and fell with an exhale from my lungs. Eager to make my escape, I gripped my key and made to step out of the elevator, but I was stopped by a hand gently grabbing my shoulder.  
  
        My skin prickled under the touch. I tensed and turned towards the owner of the hotel, pursing my lips and attempting to mask my discomfort with a faint scowl of a general sour attitude. "What now?" I snapped. His hand was swiftly shrugged off as my eyes narrowed. My accelerated heartbeat was so loud in my ears I was almost convinced he was able to hear it as well.  
  
        His lips twitched in amusement. "Just humor me, dear."  
  
        That was possibly the very last thing I felt like doing. Wasn't that what serial killers said shortly before striking down their victim? I was tired. All I wanted was to lie down and go to sleep, just close my eyes and not open them until morning, when I'd have to start figuring everything out. Or, who knows? Maybe I wouldn't wake up in the morning. Maybe my eyes would close tonight and never open again. Right now, that was an incredibly tempting thought, and I wanted nothing more than to test it.  
  
        But the way it was looking, I was never going to be able to, not if this guy wasn't going to let me leave until I relented. And I was too drained to continue to stand here and argue with him over something so stupid.  
  
        "If I let you walk me the _four_ doors to my room," I sighed, shooting him a weary glare, "Will you leave me alone?"  
  
        "If you wish."  
  
        I rolled my eyes and muttered a, "Fine," before stepping out of the elevator. He followed my lead until he was striding alongside me, his arm nearly brushing against mine. The close proximity made my hairs stand on end. I stepped slightly to the side and had my eyes roam over the hallway as a method of ignoring him. Piping and light fixtures ran along the ceiling. The walls were painted a light, greyish-green color, and lined with mounted lights between the doors. Black, yellow, and dark red carpeting ran long the floors, decorated in the same design as the lobby. Each door was made of various wood materials with peepholes under the golden room numbers.  
  
        "It would benefit you to be aware of some stipulations and provisions concerning your stay," James spoke, his voice echoing through the otherwise empty space, jolting my attention back to him. "First, there is an operable telephone in your room; local calls are free of charge." He twirled his cane leisurely as he spoke. "Second, should you happen to lose your key, there is a fifty dollar fee."  
  
        We came to a stop in front of the door with my designated room number. My fingers twisted the corresponding key around in my hand. James' voice silenced as we stood outside my door. There was something unspoken lingering in the air, and as much as I yearned to escape his presence, I felt the need to know what he wasn't telling me. Even though it was probably something trivial.  
  
        I gently bit down on the tip of my tongue and glanced at him. "And third?" I prompted dryly.  
  
        He smirked and leaned on his cane. "What makes you believe there is a third stipulation?"  
  
"You wouldn't have numbered them off if there weren't more than two, so just tell me what it is so you can go away and leave me alone."  
  
        "Why, my darling, you are as astute as you are beautiful," he proclaimed, "If not a bit impatient." My unamused glare did not cause him to falter as he continued to grin down at me. "There  _is_  a third provision." He leaned forward to the point of just invading my personal space, causing me to stiffen minutely as my nostrils caught whiff of his cologne once again, this time more pungent than in the elevator. "The ice machine is down the second hall to your right."  
  
My lips pinched together at the information. His dramatics were only serving to wear me down quicker. The way he leaned forward was reminiscent of someone about to reveal something incredibly important that was probably supposed to remain a secret. While I did not for one second believe me was about to share anything like that with me, I was more than a little put off by his demeanor. I was not in a good mood coming into the hotel, and I was definitely not in any sort of mood to put up with any bullshit, and this guy's bullshit was nothing I'd ever seen before. He was very quickly working on my last nerve.  
  
        "Wonderful, good to know. Really glad we built up the suspense for that," I muttered, twisting the key around in my hand, moving it towards the lock, "Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?" My eyes slid back over to him, and upon seeing that pretentious grin still fixed in place, I sighed. " _Please?_ "  
  
        "Of course, my dear, I gave you my word," he acknowledged, "However, I should like to wait to see you inside before I take my leave."  
  
I scowled at his persistence. Jamming the key into the lock, I roughly turned it in the tumbler, my irritation seeping into my actions. My hand flew down to grab the knob the second it was unlocked to twist it and open the door. Without sparing him another glance, I practically threw myself inside and slammed the door shut behind me, bathing me in the darkness of the room. Which I instantly regretted.  
  
        "As promised, I shall not call upon you the remainder of this evening," he called through the door, raising his voice slightly to be heard through the wood. "Enjoy your stay, Miss Harmon."  
  
His use of my surname did not go unnoticed, but I did not dwell on it, not at that moment. My scattered brain was too preoccupied with the ominous atmosphere that cloaked the room. It was like I had stepped back into that cramped closet. Except, this was much more crowded, more . . . suffocating. It didn't sit well with me. I had long since grown accustomed to the similar feeling of the Murder House, but this was far more intense, almost like I was standing in the middle of a gathering, surrounded by dozens of people who weren't what you'd call good citizens.  
  
        Sucking in a deep breath, I trailed my hand along the wall until I hit the light switch, instantly flicking it up. The room was illuminated, and while the feeling didn't subside, being able to see where I was helped make me a little more comfortable. I was surprised to see it was separated into three sections. The first section was set up almost like a living room with a small wooden table and a couple of green armchairs. Then past the archway was a double bed with a covering to match the chairs and a large wardrobe against the wall. A door in the bedroom area then led into the bathroom, complete with a toilet, sink, and bathtub, and green tiling.  
  
        This room was like a downplayed suite. It was very nice. Or it would have been had it not been for the sense of being cramped in a small space.  
  
        With a sigh, I forced that to the back of my mind, wandering over to the bed. My eyes scanned the surface of the comforter as I tried to decide whether or not it would be okay to sleep on tonight. We'd had a bad experience with hotel beds before. Bed bugs were a nuisance. Thank God we'd been able to catch and rid of them before they became a problem. I peeled back the sheets to examine the mattress. Only when I didn't see anything did I finally allow myself to sit down.  
  
        The mattress was firm, almost uncomfortably so, but I couldn't find it within me to complain. I'd managed to find someplace decent to stay for a while, and I had a bed to sleep on, so it definitely could have been worse. I mean, I could have been forced to sleep in my car, and with my luck recently, I was kind of surprised that hadn't been the case. Though sleeping in my car would have saved me the trouble of coming across James March.  
  
        I exhaled once more and reclined on my back. He was possibly the last person I wanted to think about right now. Earlier I would have said that person was Violet or Ben or Mom, but James had just managed to work his way under my skin, probably because I was so tired and not really in the mood to deal with anyone. He had only been trying to help, I supposed, and probably hadn't meant to annoy me. I'd have to find and apologize to him tomorrow. Maybe give him well-deserved props for owning an establishment as grand as the Hotel Cortez.  
  
        A weird sensation erupted in my abdomen and successfully brought me out of my thoughts. Brows furrowed, I propped myself up on my elbows and gazed down at my stomach, gauging the event. It felt almost like kernels were popping within. I'd read somewhere that the baby kicking could feel like that, but given I wasn't far enough along to be feeling him move just yet, it was probably just gas. Still, I held up my weight with one arm while I brought my other one forward, cradling the small swell of my abdomen with my hand.  
  
        "Don't worry, I'll figure something out," I murmured, gently rubbing the area as I spoke partially to my unborn child and partially to myself, falling back and resting my head on my other arm. "It'll be okay. We'll be okay."

* * *

**Abbie is officially checked into the infamous Hotel Cortez! You guys have no idea how long I have been anticipating this moment. Her stay here is a milestone in her story, and I am very much looking forward to it and how it's going to play out in the long run, so I hope you guys continue to enjoy it.**   
  
**She's been given the very office of America's first serial killer, who has appeared to take a liking to her. This could only bode well for her, ahaha! I'm curious as to what you guys think of James' apparent interest in her.**   
  
**I was going to wait to introduce James March, but honestly, I love that man so much, I just couldn't wait any longer. I hope I was able to portray his character decently, especially his dialogue, which has proven to be quite troublesome for me.**   
  
**Also, I have no idea how much the rooms at the hotel cost, I couldn't find that information anywhere, so I pulled a price off a list of four-star hotels in the Los Angeles area to get a ballpark number. This has proven to me just why I couldn't make it in California, I don't have the money to start out with!**   
  
**I'd like to thank Weisse Frauen for her help on James' dialogue. Without her, I'd no doubt still be stuck.**


	26. Hot Mess

My fitful sleep was disturbed the following morning by someone at my door. The repetitive noise of knuckles coming against a wooden surface provoked a groan to slip past my parted lips as my eyes cracked open to peer into the dimly lit room. Rolling over onto my stomach, I blindly grabbed for the clock that lay next to the bed, squinting at the digital screen to make out the red numbers. It was apparently about half past seven, which was far too early to be disrupting my sleep, even if it hadn't been peaceful.  
  
        The knocking became more persistent. Another groan emitted from me as I forced my body to roll out of bed. I rubbed at my eyes and ran a hand through my disheveled hair, slipping on my discarded shorts before shuffling over to the door, blinking rapidly to try and rid of some of the clinging exhaustion. Who the hell wanted what the hell this damn early in the morning?  
  
        When I finally opened the door, I found myself peering tiredly at an older woman garbed in an old-fashioned maid's outfit, her strawberry blonde hair pinned up with a few curls escaping the confines. Her hazel browneyes twinkled merrily, and her lips pulled upwards to form a cheery smile. She seemed much too happy for such an awful hour. It almost annoyed me.  
  
        "Good morning, Miss Harmon," she greeted in a chipper tone, "I've brought you breakfast, as requested."  
  
        My squinted eyes moved to glance at the cart she had by her side. On it was a rounded, covered tray, a teapot with the corresponding teacup and saucer, and a narrow vase holding a single orange begonia. On the bottom was a stack of carefully folded sheets and towels next to an empty basket. I returned my attention to her, blinking in sleep-muddled confusion, "I . . . didn't request anything . . ."  
  
        "Well, of course _you_ didn't, dear," she replied, "Compliments of Mr. March."  
  
        She pushed the cart past me and into the room. Her movement caused me to step aside, inadvertently opening the door wider to allow her access, as my hazy mind struggled to stir into a greater state of awareness. I took in the woman's words, but my brain was a little slow in processing the meaning behind them, my pace of function causing my thinking to be a little behind.  
  
        Frowning, I stepped away from the door, firmly rubbing at my cheeks to try and wake myself further. The woman lifted the tray cover to reveal what was apparently mine to enjoy. My stomach growled as the scents wafted over to me. I hadn't eaten properly since the day before yesterday, and being in the presence of food made me realize just how empty my stomach was.  
  
        Upon closer inspection, I was able to determine what the dishes were, and I had to admit that I was pleasantly surprised. A small bowl of mixed berries and mint springs with berry shrub. Scrambled eggs with black truffles. A ricotta and honey sandwich. And, as she began to pour the contents of the pot into its respective cup, Orange Pekoe tea.  
  
        My brow creased as her words sunk in. "Mr. March?" I repeated.  
  
        "The master of the house," she affirmed, "He made his introductions last night, did he not?"  
  
        She had the same tone of voice as he did. There was no accent accompanying her words, but the way she talked, it was as though she were from an older era. Exactly like James March. The similarity was strange. Then again, what about this situation _wasn't_ strange? I was an unwed, pregnant, teenage girl forced to rent out a hotel room for God knows how long because her parents had kicked her out of the house on Thanksgiving. There was nothing normal about that. But nothing was normal about my life now. My life had driven so far past normal that it wasn't even a shadow of a speck of dirt in the rearview mirror.  
  
        "We met." I bit the inside of my cheek. "But, why?"  
  
        The woman stepped over to the bed, beginning to strip the covers. She started with the comforter, tossing it on the floor before going for the sheets, untucking them from the mattress. "Why what, dear?" she queried absentmindedly. Her attention was fixed primarily on her current task.  
  
        Gesturing towards the cart, to the dishes of food that my stomach was begging me to devour, I elaborated, "Why _this_ , why would he do this? Why would he request a breakfast for me?"  
  
        We'd only met last night, and I certaintly hadn't done anything to warrant such a kind -- strange, but kind -- gesture. I'd been less than friendly towards him. I'd been visibly displeased with his presence and told him outright to leave me alone. That wasn't the sort of behavior that should be rewarded with anything, much less a very well put together meal that looked like it should cost more than what it should, paid for nevertheless.  
  
        The woman's lips turned up at the corners as she begun dressing the mattress with the fresh linens she'd brought on the bottom of the cart. "Mr. March is a generous man, Miss Harmon. He likes to ensure his guests are well cared for, especially the ones he's taken a liking to; he ensures they want for nothing during their stay," she simpered.  
  
        My frown became more pronounced. Was she implying he'd taken a liking to me? That was ridiculous. We'd only been together for maybe five minutes, if that, and I'd done nothing to show him that I deserved to be liked in any fashion. Especially nothing to warrant anything of this magnitude.  
  
        When my stomach rumbled once more, pulling my attention back to the cart, the woman laughed lightly. "You sound famished, dear." She smoothed out the last wrinkle and turned to face me with a smile. "You just enjoy your breakfast, Miss Harmon, and I shall return shortly to retrieve the cart." She gathered up the discarded linens and dumped them in the basket before hoisting that up and heading for the door. "Do not hesitate to call the front desk if you're in want or need of anything. Ask for Iris Locke or Liz Taylor; Mr. March has made it inescapably clear that they are not to deny you anything during your stay," she said.  
  
        I stared after her retreating form. The cogs in my head were turning, but they were fighting to reach a conclusion, struggling to come up with a proper response. The owner of the hotel had told the staff that I wasn't to be denied anything? I couldn't wrap my mind around that. What was so special about me? I certainly couldn't think of anything.  
  
        Not being able to come up with anything to say about that, I settled on, "Uh, thank you . . .?" The end died off and lilted into a question as I realized I didn't know this woman's name.  
  
        Stopping to grab the handle, she shot me a grin. "Hazel Evers, dear. Now eat up, you wouldn't want it going to waste, now would you?" The door closed behind her, leaving me alone once again, this time more confused and generally uneasy.  
  
        And hungry. Definitely hungry.  
  
        I scrolled through the contacts on my phone as I caved and dug into the meal. There were only a couple of people who were worth calling, and only two of them might be able to help me today. The only clothes I had were the ones I was currently wearing. In order to get my hands on some more, I would either have to go back to the house, which I refused to do, or I'd have to go out and buy some more, which I didn't want to do because the money I had was going to be put into this room; since I wasn't sure how long I was going to be staying, I needed to save as much as I could.  
  
        Eva or Constance.  
  
        My teeth worried at my bottom lip as I debated on which one to call. I'd almost prefer Eva being aware of my situation rather than Constance, but I couldn't possibly ask her to go get my clothes. If my parents were home, that would put her in a very awkward situation, and I did not know her nearly well enough to do that to her. That left Constance. She was the logical choice anyway. She lived right next door, and if no one was home, she knew how to get inside, and if they were, she was strong in her convictions and would keep my location a secret if I asked her to.  
  
        Having made my choice, I moved over to the telephone on the nightstand, scowling at the lack of service the building provided. It was a dead zone. I punched in the number and held the receiver up to my ear, chewing a bite of the ricotta and honey sandwich as I listened to the ringing, a deep sound that was not heard too often today as most phone conversations took place over a cellular device.  
  
        " _Hello?_ "  
  
        Her tired voice came over the line with what sounded like a suppressed yawn. Faint guilt draped over me as I realized I hadn't taken into account the time. It was still early, she'd probably been sleeping, and I'd probably just woken her up. "Constance, it's Abbie. Sorry if I woke you . . ."  
  
        She sniffed slightly. _"No, I've been up for a few minutes. Now what's going on? I saw you leave last night. Is everything all right?"_  
  
        "Everything's fine, I -- I'll explain it all later." I sighed and shut my eyes for a second. "Do you -- Can you please do me a favor?"  
  
        After she agreed to gather some of my clothes and bring them to me, agreeing not to tell them where I was but to let them know that I was safe and I had found a place to stay, I finished my breakfast and freshened up in the bathroom. I had plans to shower once I had a change of clothes. But for now I just used the bar soap provided to wash my face and combed my fingers through my hair in a vain attempt to tame the beastly mess it'd become overnight. That was the worst thing about having natural curls. They intertwined and tangled within each other with no effort on my part.  
  
        When I felt I had done the best I could, I turned to leave, but I stopped upon my reflection catching my eye. Or, more accurately, an aspect of my reflection. I had grown larger. Apparently it hadn't been enough for me to physically feel it, but as my eyes raked over my form in the mirror, I could clearly see the difference. Frowning deeply, I pulled my shirt up to get a better view of my stomach, scrutinizing the enlarged bump with confusion. There was no way I could have grown that much in the course of a few hours.  
  
        My eyes trailed up my torso to land on my chest. Lifting the shirt higher, I turned more to my side and examined my side profile, noting how my bra was just a bit fuller than I remembered. The cups were beginning to strain a little against the additional volume. This particular bra was a little small anyway, and it had still managed to hold everything in with no discomfort, but now I could see that its contents had expanded to press firmly against the material.  
  
        My breasts had enlarged. Again, seemingly overnight. I brought my hands up and gently prodded at the top tissue. A small wince crossed my features at the abrupt tenderness my touch had brought about. It looked like I wasn't going to be as lucky as I was yesterday in the symptoms department. Biting the inside of my cheek, I sighed and pulled my shirt back down, smoothing my hands over the front to try and rid of what wrinkles I could. I faltered when they hovered over my swollen stomach. The area had definitely gained some girth.  
  
        This pregnancy was not normal. That was something I'd figured out upon the discovery that Tate had actually been dead for the past seventeen years, but it was much more apparent now, as my hands outlined the ballooning flesh of my inhabited stomach. Maybe the increased growth had to do with the baby's father not being alive. It was something I felt compelled to look up when I was able, but at the same time, I figured there would be little to no information on the subject. How many others could have possibly been stupid enough to get impregnated by a ghost? Probably not many.  
  
        I decided to wait in the lobby for Constance. The suffocating feel of the room had not dissipated, and as I was freshening up in the bathroom, I was quickly growing as uncomfortable as I was last night when I first walked in. I needed to get out of there and into a more open space. So I grabbed my key and stuffed it in the pocket of my shorts before leaving the room. Hopefully I didn't look as ragged as I thought.  
  
        The lobby was still empty. It was still early though. Surely a hotel as grand as this one would have a few well-to-do guests staying for a time. The only person currently about aside from myself, however, was the woman behind the front desk. It wasn't the same woman that checked me in last night. This one had a more distinct appearance. She was tall and lean, and she was bald. Her eyes were done up in Cleopatra-style makeup. Draped over her body was a flowing gown of sorts. A pair of large earrings dangled to touch the thin embroidered scarf around her neck.  
  
        It took my weary mind a moment to catch up with my eyes and realize that I was actually looking at a man. A man who was garbed in women's clothing.  
  
        I blinked, taken by surprise, but I made it a point not to stare. The sight was not one I saw everyday. It was a little strange to me. But I didn't want to judge. Maybe he just identified as a woman. He didn't exactly look like a drag queen. Or maybe he just enjoyed dressing in women's clothing. Whichever it was, to each their own, it was his business. There really was nothing wrong with it.  
  
        Though it would be nice to know which gender he did identify with. If he identified as a woman, I didn't want to continue referring to him as a man, even if it was just in my own head. It would make me more comfortable knowing so I wouldn't accidentally offend him if I referred to him as one or the other.  
  
        I must not have been doing a good enough job on the not staring front. As though sensing my eyes on him, he looked up from the book he had been immersed in, his own eyes moving over my frame briefly before coming to rest on my face. "Can I help you, hon?"  
  
        My cheeks flared up as the chagrin of being caught staring set in, and I quickly shook my head. "No. I'm just -- I'm waiting for someone," I sighed.  
  
        He nodded, but kept his gaze on me, his eyes slightly squinted. I averted my attention elsewhere and continued on towards the sitting area in the middle. Everyone in this hotel was strange. It didn't sit well with me. But there wasn't really anything I could do, at least not until Lana and Marion got back, at which point in time I could ask to stay with them until I figured out what to do. I actually still had to let them know what was going on. But I kind of wanted to wait until they were at least on their way back to California. I didn't want to dampen their holiday. Just because mine had been ruined didn't mean their's had to be ruined too.  
  
        "You look like you have a lot on your mind," the man spoke, drawing my attention back towards the desk; he flashed me a small smile. "Care to talk?"  
  
        I shuffled my feet slightly as I glanced over him. He seemed nice enough, but I was no where near comfortable talking to him about anything, at least not anything that didn't qualify as polite small talk. Even that I found tedious on my best day. It was downright irritating on a bad day, and on my worst days, you so much as breathe in my direction, I was liable to snap. I just didn't like sharing anything with strangers.  
  
        As though knowing what was going through my head, he nodded and made a noise of understanding. "That's okay, hon. But if you _do_ ever need to talk, you can usually find me up in the Blue Parrot Lounge." He pointed up to the upper level. "I'm the bartender, Liz Taylor," he introduced.  
  
        There was a bar up there? I'd never heard of a hotel having their own lounge. A bar, yes, and maybe a lounge _area_ , but never a lounge with its own name. That was actually a neat detail, though, when I considered it. I made a mental note to check it out sometime, even if I couldn't drink, and I also made sure to note the name he had given me. Well,  _she_  had given me, as Liz Taylor clearly identified as a woman. Which was nice to know.  
  
        My lips curled up into a tight-lipped smile. "That's very, uh,  _kind_  of you. Thank you." Maybe the people at this hotel were just unnaturally nice. "Abigail," I added. I figured it was only polite to introduce myself since she did.  
  
        A corner of her mouth quirked up knowingly. "Ah, so  _you're_  the special guest. I must say, I see why he has taken a liking to you," she remarked.  
  
        If I frowned anymore, I wasn't ever going to be able to smile again. A dull throb started in my temples. This place was giving me a headache. More like the people were. Or, if I wanted to really be specific, it was this _James March_ that was doing my head in. We hadn't been in each other's company for more than five minutes, and in that short amount of time, he had managed to creep me out, annoy me, _and_ apparently take a liking to me. It was very peculiar. But as weird as it was, I couldn't help but be curious and intrigued; just who _was_ this guy?  
  
        "And why is that?"  
  
        "You're cute," Liz shrugged, "And you look like a girl who can handle herself." She pursed her lips, her eyes glinting with empathy. "So what are you running from?"  
  
        My mouth pinched together. How was it she was instantly able to figure out that I was running from something? Though, when you thought about it, was I _really_ running? I was here because I was kicked out of my own house, and I didn't have anywhere else to go, not at the moment. It hadn't been my choice to leave. But I guess I wasn't exactly eager to face the situation head on either. I was about two months along in my pregnancy, and my parents had only found out because my sister had ratted me out because she was still pissed at me; now I guess I kind of understood _why_ she was pissed, at least I had given her a reason to be this time, but I still didn't know why she'd been so hostile to begin with.  
  
        Though I did have the idea that it was probably the same reason why I had recently come to hate myself.  
  
        "I'm not running from anything," I denied before wetting my lips and glancing away with a quiet sigh. "Running implies you had a choice."  
  
        My hand rose instinctively to rest against my protruding stomach. There had been a choice, and I had very stupidly made the wrong one. But sometimes I wondered if it _had_ been my choice. The Xanax had obviously impaired my judgement. I hadn't been in my right mind, I hadn't been coherent enough to consider the consequences of my actions. But it had been my choice to take it. I had deliberately gone into Ben's office and stolen the sample. That was on me.  
  
        My mind would cycle through that when I was left through my own devices, and I would come to the conclusion every time that I was to blame for all of this. But then I would recall the two assaults before Tate and I ever happened. When I first found out I was pregnant, my initial thought was that it was the Rubber Man's doing, but then my intuition kicked in and told me that Tate was the father. And now, when I dared to look back on it whenever I allowed my thoughts to wander, I would wonder how much of it had been real.  
  
        I had confided in Leah that sometimes I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't, and that I felt like I was losing my mind. The scary part of that was those weren't just words. There were many times where I struggled to differentiate between reality and fantasy. That had been happening more frequently as of late, and I had come to realize that I wasn't even sure if the Rubber Man actually existed, or if he was just an imaginary manifestation of something repressed within me. I had thought the first encounter had been a dream, and the second encounter had solidified the experience for me, but what if _that_ had just been a dream?  
  
        My sanity was slowing slipping between my fingers, and I was powerless to stop it.  
  
        Noticing the position of my hand, I swiped it over the front of my shirt, pretending I had just been dusting something off the fabric. As much as I hoped it had been a believable move, I doubted I had managed to fool Liz. She seemed like an unnaturally perceptive woman. And I had probably waited a moment too long before trying to pass it off as something innocent.  
  
        Liz hummed lightly, but she didn't press the issue. Apparently she got that I didn't really want to talk about it. I was grateful when she returned her attention to her book. It gave me a little breathing room and allowed me to think further about everything. Which I didn't particularly want to do. So I just lowered myself onto a loveseat and took out my phone. There was still no service, just a measly little bar that flickered in and out, but I had a couple of games that would keep me busy until Constance showed up.  
  
        My finger tapped against the screen in a constant rhythm as I tried to complete the flows across the grid. The tedious form of entertainment helped to keep my thoughts from getting the best of me. But it didn't stop them from plaguing my mind all together. I thought about Mom and Ben, how they were feeling now that a night had passed, and I thought about Violet, wondering if she regretted telling them or was glad I was finally out of the house and away from her, and I thought about Tate. Had he heard it all go down? Did he find out what had happened? Did he know he was going to be a father?  
  
        Did he hate me?  
  
        The only thing that would make it all worse, if he did hear, was the way he found out. I should have been the one to tell him. He should have heard it from me -- _directly_ from me, not secondhand from my pissed off sister. He probably did hate me now. I wouldn't blame if he did. It hurt to think that he might, and that he more than likely did, but I understood why he would. He was going to be a father. In almost six months, he was going to be responsible for a human life he had helped to create, and I had kept it from him. I had made the deliberate decision not to tell him.  
  
        I had come to terms with Violet hating me. Ben clearly wasn't too fond of me at the moment, which was fine by me, because I hadn't been fond of him for a long time now. Mom hadn't been too eager to defend me, so maybe I was more of a burden on her than I'd thought, maybe she wanted me out too. Somehow I was okay with all of that. But the one person I couldn't have hate me was Tate. He was the one thing in my life that had been keeping me grounded despite all of the ups and downs he'd provided. He was a mess, but perhaps that was how he had become like my rock, because I was a hot mess myself, and he knew how to handle the storm I carried with me. In some ways he even quelled it.  
  
        Tate was the most stable thing in my life right now. Whereas everything around me was rapidly deteriorating and falling apart, he was stationary. He remained unchanged, he was always right there, never moving away from me or leaving my side. I would be lost without him to keep me anchored. If he did hate me, while I understood, it would tear me up from the inside out. I didn't know what I would do.  
  
        The thoughts kept coming at me, bombarding and overwhelming me, until I could no longer ignore them. They demanded my undivided attention, and they would drive me insane until I relented. So I tossed my phone onto the cushion beside me before burying my face in my hands with a low groan. My chest tightened as they continued to swirl around in my head, gradually turning more and more destructive, until I felt I was suffocating beneath it all. I was trapped in my own negativity with no hope of escape even glimmering at the very back of my mind.  
  
        A rush of air prompted me to raise my head and look towards the entrance. Constance was stepping into the lobby with my duffel bag swinging at her side and her purse slung over her shoulder. I just stared at her for a second as she took in the surroundings. A wave of emotions hit me in a tsunami, and there were too many for me to sort out. The intensity had salty moisture stinging my eyes. It made me feel ridiculous, but I couldn't help it.  
  
        I stood from my seat and turned to face her. My bottom lip quivered. "Constance," I whimpered.  
  
        The older woman turned her attention to me. Her pleasantly surprised expression softened. She hurried over to me and dropped the bags to the plush carpet before gathering me in her arms. My arms wound around her back to hold me closer to her as I struggled to maintain my composure. The middle of the lobby was not the ideal location for me to break down. Especially not with an audience. I could feel the gates straining against the intensity of my emotions, nearly breaking open, but I managed to hold them closed for just a little longer, only a few sniffles sneaking through as I blinked back the brimming tears.  
  
        Constance didn't speak while she held me. She just let me hold on to her while I tried to keep it together. If someone had told me that I would be going to Constance for help, that I would be nearly crying in her arms because I had gotten myself knocked up with her dead son's baby and my parents had kicked me out of the house, I would have laughed in their face and claimed they were either delusional or had a good imagination. My first impression of Constance hadn't been good. Granted, it hadn't been too far off, but there was a lot more to her than seen at first glance. And there I was, counting on her to hold me up because I had been stupid, and I had punched a hole through all of my future plans.  
  
        Finally I pulled back with a huff of embarrassment. "Sorry, I just . . ." I trailed off, shaking my head. It was so ridiculous. I'd been perfectly fine. Well, not _fine_ , but I hadn't been an emotional mess, either. At least not outwardly.  
  
        Her lips pressed into a grim smile. "Never apologize for how you feel, dear. Now tell me what's going on," she insisted.  
  
        Biting my lip, I glanced back at the front desk, where Liz's eyes remained glued to the pages of her novel. She seemed preoccupied. But I still wasn't sure if I was comfortable talking about it while she was within earshot. I had no reason to distrust Liz, but I had no reason to trust her, either. Liz was someone I had literally just met. My life really was none of her business, and honestly, I was embarrassed by it. I didn't want anyone on the outside knowing how fucked up everything was for me right now.  
  
        Constance's eyes followed my gaze. She briefly scrutinized Liz with pinched lips before nodding. "Is there someplace we can talk? Your room, perhaps?" she inquired, stooping down to pick up her purse. I copied her movements and grabbed my duffel bag by the shortened handles.  
  
        "Well," I said, chewing on the inside of my cheek, "We can talk up in the lounge." With my head I gestured towards the grand stairs and up to the second level. "I don't think there's anyone up there right now."  
  
        For some reason I didn't want to bring her up to my room. In my mind, letting her see the space I had rented out would suddenly make it real, it would prove that my life had officially gone down the drain; I wasn't ready to admit that. So I was inwardly relieved when she agreed to talk up in the lounge in lieu of going to my room. It was also a relief when she didn't question my deflection.  
  
        The Blue Parrot Lounge was just as grand as the rest of the hotel. A golden bar stretched across at least half of one side of the upper level. Stools with red squared cushions lined the exterior. Behind the bar was an assortment of various liquors, all of them looking pretty upscale, and a beautiful skylight descending down the wall. Dark red chairs and round tables with a small lamp lit on each wooden surface provided more options for seating.  
  
        After a brief glance around, Constance and I took a seat at one of the tables, overlooking the lobby from behind the railing. We placed our respective bags by our feet. My eyes flickered over the open expanse in an immediate attempt to avoid looking at her. Unfortunately, and as expected, she was not having that.  
  
        Her fingernail tapped against the table, hard, to gain my attention. "No, none of that, you look at me right now and tell me what's going on."  
  
        I released a small, defeated sigh, chewing on the inside of my lip as I turned to face her. Her eyes were sharp and intense as they bore into mine, but the familiar brown irises also held within them an ample amount of curiosity and concern. My eyes once again began to sting with tears. I tried to blink them away, but they persisted, so I just gave up; if they were going to fall, so be it, I didn't care anymore. I swallowed past the painful lump lodged in my throat.  
  
        "They know I'm pregnant with Tate's child," I confessed, wincing at the embarrassing crack in my voice, "They found out last night, and I was kicked out of the house." Sniffling, I looked away from her and down to my stomach, lightly running a hand over protruding area. "I -- I didn't have anywhere else to go."  
  
        Now that I had confided in someone, that I had spoken the words aloud, I was embarrassed. It was utterly embarrassing for me to admit. Especially to a woman who was always so well put together while I'd been nothing but a hurricane of chaos and disarray lately. My rapidly expanding stomach only added to the shame. I couldn't help but wonder how blatant it was to others, if Constance had taken notice of my extra girth, if others could take a glance at me and tell I had become just another statistic, just one more teenage girl who couldn't keep her legs closed or use any form of protection.  
  
        I had never been more humiliated than in that moment, when it all came crashing down on me, and the weight of it all forced my quelled tears to slip past their weak confines and over the curve of my heated cheeks. My hand quickly came up to swipe the moisture off my skin, but more replaced it the second it was gone, so I just let the tears fall.  
  
        Constance reached out and grabbed my other hand, tugging it so it was away from my stomach. She held it between both of hers and squeezed it periodically, coaxing my eyes to lift once more to her. "Abbie, sweetheart, you will _always_ have somewhere to go. I would have let you stay at my house until things smoothed over," she said.  
  
        "I appreciate it, Constance," I sniffed, "but I needed a little more distance than just next door."  
  
        All this damn crying had me feeling like a big baby who couldn't handle herself. And I didn't even know  _why_  I was crying. If it was because of my situation, then I felt it was a little excessive. Unless my hormones had decided to play on my emotions during a vulnerable time and turned me into a sniveling mess when I needed to be strong for myself. I remembered when Mom had been pregnant with Joel. She had gotten so emotional at times that she'd cry at the drop of a hat. Literally; she'd dropped her hat and started crying. It was kind of amusing to witness, but now that I was -- probably -- experiencing it, it wasn't too funny.  
  
        The older woman merely pressed her lips together and hummed slightly in response. I hoped I hadn't hurt her feelings any, especially since she seemed so willing to help me out, but her house was much too close for comfort after being kicked out of mine. The properties were adjacent. I'd wanted to get as far away as I logically could. Next door hadn't even been a blip on the radar of options for me.  
  
        "It's nothing against you," I quickly added, "I just -- Everything was so chaotic last night, I just needed to get away."  
  
        "I understand, dear," she replied softly, a small smile touching her withered lips, "I was just reminding you that my door is always open to you." I nodded and was able summon a weak smile of gratitude. At least I hoped it looked like a smile; it certainly felt more like a grimace. Constance sighed and patted my knee. "I hate to leave so soon, but you probably want to be alone right now, don't you?"  
  
        My initial reaction had been to deny it and request she stay a bit longer. But she was right. I wasn't in the mood to socialize. I just wanted to retreat up to my rented room and crawl underneath the fresh covers and never resurface. I wanted the nightmare to end. It was surprising that Constance had picked up on that before even I had. But perhaps, since she was older, she knew what to look for. I doubted she had been in any sort of semblance of the situation I was currently in though.  
  
        Constance's smile grew wider, but it also saddened. "You know how to reach me."  
  
        Standing from her seat, she hitched her purse over her shoulder, but before she could leave, I quickly reached out and grabbed her hand. "Wait, please." I stood to match her height and drew her in for another hug. Her arms came to wind up around my back. "Thank you, for everything," I whispered.  
  
        Her hand patted my back. "Anytime, sweetheart. Don't be afraid to call, all right?" She pulled back before pausing slightly. "Abigail, about your parents . . ." She trailed off, but she didn't need to continue; I knew what she was saying.  
  
        "No. I -- I don't want them to know where I am. Not yet." I raked a hand through my hair. "If they knew, they'll probably come to talk or something, and I just -- I don't want to see them. I'm not ready to face them again."  
  
        I didn't know what I would do if I saw them. Torn between being angry and being devastated, I just needed to be away form them. I needed to be away from it all. Constance seemed to understand this, for she reassured me that she wouldn't say anything until I was ready, then she gave me another quick hug before descending the stairs, leaving me to watch from the lounge.  
  
        A sigh left me as I bent down to pick up my bag before pausing slightly, noticing something poking out from where the zipper hadn't closed all the way. The damn thing had broken years ago and refused to zip past a certain point. Frowning, I gently extracted it, revealing it to be the photo strip from Halloween. Constance must have grabbed it from my desk. I examined the photos with a faint smile, remembering that night. Everything hadn't been all right then, it had been in the middle of it all, but that had been a good time. Tate had made it so.  
  
        Regret filled my heart. How was Tate taking my absence? I hadn't even asked about him, or asked Constance to give him a message, even if it would have been a simple 'I miss you,' or something as equally trivial. And I'd just been thinking about him before she'd showed up with my bag. Apparently I never ran out of situations to remind me how selfish I was.  
  
        On a whim, I placed a light kiss to the strip, closing my eyes and sinking back into my chair. It had only been a day, but I already missed him. Normally at this time, he would have already been gone from my room, but all I'd have to do is wait just a little while, and then he'd be there. We would talk and just enjoy each other's company. Maybe we would watch videos on my computer or he'd ask me to read something to him. Sometimes we'd just listen to music, mostly Nirvana, since Kurt Cobain was the only thing the boy appeared to like. Idolize might be a better term for it, actually, but I didn't mind. I thought it was cute, and it was kind of neat in a way, for it was a sign of just what time he was from.  
  
        I let out another sigh. I really did hope he wasn't mad at me. But if he was, I just hoped he could forgive me.

* * *

**I'm so sorry for how long this took and how rushed (and badly written) it probably is towards the ending. Updates for a while might be more delayed than usual. The story has come to a point where it's going to be mostly improvisation for a good while, and I always have more trouble with that than actually following a script, and I have also been dedicating some of my time to working on other works in progress; hopefully some will be published soon. Plus inspiration for this story has slowly been dwindling, so during the time I've dedicated to other stories, I've also been thinking about how to go about writing these next chapters.**   
  
**A/N: Inspiration for the breakfast idea came from 'Kindred Spirits' on Fanfiction.net.**


	27. Malfunction

My plan to barricade myself in my room for the rest of the day unfortunately went awry.  
  
        After Constance had left the hotel, and after I'd tired of moping up in the lounge, I had grabbed my duffel bag and retired to my hotel room. The first thing I had done was take a shower. I was relieved to finally wash the grime off of my body and the grease from my hair, not to mention I could finally change into a fresh set of clothes, which felt a thousand times better than being garbed in the same material I'd had on for an entire day and night.  
  
        Once I was presentable I felt so much better. Everything was clean and smelled faintly of generic rose. Any traces of my pathetic tears had been washed away and replaced with a light layer of makeup. The golden-brown shadow glimmered underneath the fluorescent light on the ceiling, and the dark liner and mascara painting my lashes helped draw attention away from the faint bags underneath my reddened eyes, along with the assistance of concealer. My lips were grossly chapped, probably because I fell asleep last night without washing the makeup off of my face, but it was hidden underneath a pink gloss, the gold accents shimmering faintly.  
  
        The maquillage was really just to make me feel better about my appearance. With everything swelling at an undesired, rapid pace, I felt like I needed to make an extra effort; I certainly did to make myself feel somewhat confident. And it was a little ostentatious compared to my choice of clothing. All I had pulled on was a loose-fitting, white t-shirt with the words _'it's not hoarding if it's books'_ scrawled across the front in black cursive, the words _'hoarding'_ and _'books'_ in capital print; a pair of plain denim shorts that stopped a little above mid-thigh; and my worn Converse sneakers. The canvas had stretched a bit over time, but while that usually tended to annoy me just a little, I was now grateful for it, because my stomach and breasts were not the only things that had swollen. My feet were starting to catch up.  
  
        Then my hair had just been brushed out, rid of all the stubborn knots and tangles, and pulled up into a ponytail. Unfortunately I hadn't thought to ask Constance to grab my hairdryer while she was getting my bag ready, so all I'd had to use was a towel, and of course my hair hadn't dried all the way, so the ponytail was the best course for me to take. Even if it was just to make me a little more comfortable. I hated the feeling of damp hair against my back. My shirt would get all wet, and then I'd just be uncomfortable for hours. Not really ideal for me in this situation when I was prone to emotional turmoil.  
  
        Constance had been generous enough to provide a little surprise for me in my bag as well. She must have either forgotten to mention it earlier, or she had meant for it to be a surprise, for when I opened it up. Resting on top of my neatly folded clothes was a pregnancy book. It appeared to be brand new, or at least fairly recent, like it had never been truly opened before.  _I_  almost didn't open it, but my curiosity quickly got the best of me, and I figured it would benefit me to know what was going on inside my body during the next seven months.  
  
        My hand rested on my bump while I studied the pages. Occasionally it would rub gentle circles or provide a pat, or my fingers would absentmindedly drum against the swell, but it never left the expanded area. It wasn't even something I was aware of until my informational reading was interrupted by someone knocking at my door. A frown instantly marred my lips, but I set aside the book and pushed myself up off the mattress, traipsing over to peer through the peephole.  
  
        Ms. Evers was back with another cart. Just like this morning, there was a covered tray and a begonia, but instead of the teapot, there was a single cocktail glass filled with an orange-red liquid. Another basket was placed underneath. My brows drew together as I opened the door. Her bright expression remained fixed in place as she greeted me.  
  
        "Good afternoon, Miss Harmon," she chirped cheerfully, just as she did this morning, "Brought your lunch, once again as requested."  
  
        "Once again," I protested lightly, forcing out a small, uncomfortable laugh, "I didn't request anything."  
  
        She gave an airy giggle in return. Giving a shake of her head, she used the cart to push past me into my room, causing me to frown after her. "Dear, it will be awfully tedious should we go through the same conversation every time, don't you think? The master of the house has requested three meals a day for the duration of your stay here in his hotel."  
  
        Frustration bubbled up inside me. I was terribly confused. What was so damn special about me? We had talked once, for five minutes, and I had basically told him to fuck off, literally slamming my door in his face. That was not something that warranted any sort of special treatment. Unless I had pissed him off and his plan was to gradually poison me through these meals. Which I supposed could very well be the case, but the thought was a bit dramatic, warranting an eye roll from me at my absurdity.  
  
        "Why?" I pressed.  
  
        Ms. Evers lifted the tray cover to reveal two stuffed mushrooms. Portabella most likely, at least from what I could tell of the size. It had only been a few hours since she had generously brought me breakfast, but my stomach made a noise of approval. Although that could have also been the gas that had been bubbling uncomfortably for the last hour or so. It was hard to say.  
  
        She ducked down to grab the empty basket from underneath the cart. "He sees something in you, dear. I think you remind him of someone close to him that he's lost. It can be dreadful to let go of those you love." A sadness had crept into her chipper tone and clouded her bright eyes, leading me to believe she knew exactly who it was I supposedly reminded him of, and that she missed them too. "Where's your laundry, dear? I'll wash it for you," she continued.  
  
        I pressed my lips together, but I didn't comment. It was obvious that whoever this person was had been close to her, and apparently to James as well, and I knew how hard it was to lose someone. I also knew how it was to have someone bring it up and try to sympathize. She couldn't have been more right about it being difficult to let go.  
  
        So I just pointed her towards the bathroom where my dirty clothes laid in a pile. She scurried to collect them while humming a little tune that was interrupted by my phone. The screen lit up to flash an unknown number at me. Usually I didn't answer if I didn't recognize the caller, but something compelled me to pick up, so I did. And it was a good thing, too, because the voice that came through the speaker belonged to none other than Dr. Ralph Hamilton. The reason for the sudden contact was what he had seen on my ultrasound, but he didn't want to talk about it over the phone, so I agreed to meet him at the address he gave me.  
  
        After I had announced that I had to leave for a bit, and Ms. Evers had fretted until I had eaten half of my lunch, which I did as quickly as I could without being rude, I found myself cruising around in my car as I searched for the address. It would have been frustrating had I not thought to put it into my phone's GPS and let that be my guide. I wasn't yet familiar with the street names nor had I had an opportunity to properly explore the city since we moved there. There was always too much going on to even entertain the thought of doing so.  
  
        Nerves sprouted up in my stomach and twisted up the walls in uncomfortable tendrils as my brain tried to conjure up various scenarios about what the technician would say. My mind attempted over and over to summon up any ideas as to what I would be hit with when finally,  _finally_ , talking to Dr. Hamilton about what he saw on my ultrasound, but nothing would come to me. There was nothing I could think of that would warrant such a terrified response. That was what truly scared me.  
  
        The uneasiness only thickened when I pulled up to the address and found myself parking in front of a Catholic church. It was a beautiful structure, like most cathedrals were, but with the anticipation hanging over my head like a stormcloud, it looked like a looming crypt towering over me. It looked menacing. So much so that I sat in my car for another couple of moments, trying to steady myself with deep breaths, before gathering the courage to face whatever was coming at me.  
  
        Upon entering the church, my senses were instantly assaulted by the thick bouquet of burning candles, which wouldn't have been an issue had they not been scented. Bile rose to coat the inside of my throat at the strong aroma. The pungent sweetness made my stomach churn. I regretted letting Ms. Evers persuade me to eat a mushroom before leaving. It was probably on its way back up now. In an attempt to quell the roiling, I breathed deeply for a couple of seconds, clutching my hands to my abdomen.  
  
        When I felt well enough to continue, I allowed my eyes to roam around the chapel, seeing all the familiar signs of a Roman Catholic cathedral. Stained glass windows depicting various biblical scenes. Crucifixes hung on the walls. A burgundy carpet that bordered in both red and purple. A large processional cross carrying the crucified Jesus erected before the table of obnoxious candles, each and every sick ablaze, emitting the sickeningly saccharine smell that nauseated me. Two rows of long wooden pews lined either side of the aisle. Sitting in one of them near the front was a familiar figure. Even from the back I could tell from his light hair and lean build that he was who I was here for.  
  
        Careful to keep my voice lowered, not wanting to disrespect the peaceful environment the chapel offered for those who came to pray, I called out to him. "Dr. Hamilton?"  
  
        He turned around to face me. The striking blue eyes confirmed what I already knew. His face was considerably more aged than the last time I'd seen him, and his eyes held a vaguely haunted look. "Miss Harmon," he returned. He made no move to further greet me. In fact he looked as though the thought of moving from his spot terrified him.  
  
        My anxiety spiked, but I swallowed it down, making my way past the pews. "Thanks for agreeing to meet me," I offered.  
  
        "You're welcome." I didn't miss the tightness of his voice which suggested he'd rather be anywhere but here. The closer I got to him, the more uncomfortable he seemed to become, and before I could even reach the halfway point, he raised a hand, a string of rosary beads entwined around his fingers. "Stop, please. That's close enough."  
  
        My brow creased as I did as he said. He didn't even want me near him. If I had been anxious before, now I was a solid ball of nerves. It had to have been worse than I was willing to imagine if I wasn't even allowed to approach him. The fact that he looked scared out of his mind to even be in the same vicinity as me was extremely disconcerting. It was incredibly worrisome and, quite frankly, frightening.  
  
        But I needed him to tell me what he saw in my ultrasound. If I forced my presence on him, if I made him even more uncomfortable than he clearly already was, I might not get an answer. And I  _needed_  an answer, I needed to know. Whatever had frightened him enough to where he passed out had something to do with my baby. This pregnancy intimidated me enough as it was, but knowing he had seen something within my womb that terrified him to where he didn't even want to be near me, I was scared of what answer I would receive.  
  
        Wanting to try and ease his discomfort, if only just a little, I attempted to make light conversation. "I didn't know we'd be meeting in a church. I haven't been in L.A. long enough to recognize the address," I tried. I threw in a small laugh, but it wavered with my near crippling anxiety, and I knew it hadn't done anything.  
  
        Dr. Hamilton turned back around to face the altar. His hands clutched his rosary beads and brought them up to place against his mouth. "This is the only place I feel completely safe." He kissed the beads, and before I could think of something to reply with, he spoke again. "I saw the unclean thing you carry in your womb, Abigail. The plague of nations, the Beast," he spoke gravely.  
  
        All functions faltered as the words flowed from his mouth. My heart clenched, dropped, raced, and jumped up into my throat -- all at the same time. My skin prickled as the blood coursing through my veins turned to ice, the hair on my nape standing on end. Something unpleasant sank and settled in the pit of my stomach. I wasn't the most religious person, but I didn't need a translation. His words painted a horrifying image that I could decipher with no effort.  
  
        Still, I found myself doubting his words, not wanting to believe him. I didn't want to  _allow_  myself to believe him. Giving his words merit meant I was accepting the possibility that my unborn child, the tiny life developing within the safety of my abdomen, was actually a creature feared by all religions. And I refused to label my child as something so horrendous. That was my  _baby.  
  
        _"Maybe," I offered in a timorous voice, hesitating to wet my lips timidly, "Maybe the machine malfunctioned?"  
  
        Anyone's first response would be to sort out the logical explanations. My brain wracked its files for anything that made sense. The machine malfunctioning was the most obvious one. Maybe it glitched out and the image warped. Or maybe he imagined it. He seemed pretty reliant on his faith. Perhaps he took in the fact that I was an unwed teenage mother and his mind conjured up a scene to properly depict the sin.  
  
        Dr. Hamilton shook his head in a fervent denial. "It wasn't the machine. I saw it. I saw the little hooves," he insisted. His attention remained up front. He couldn't even look at me.  
  
        I swallowed hard. He sounded so certain. It was hard to discredit his claims. My mind was at war with itself. Thoughts were being flung back and forth as my brain scrambled to pick a side. Did I believe him, or did I confute him? Did I consider the truth of his words, or did I defend my child? It should have been an easy decision. I shouldn't have even had to think about it. But I was conflicted.  
  
        If this conversation had occurred a few months ago, I would have brushed off the claims as some religious delusion, but now, after all I had experienced, I wasn't so sure. This baby was the result of a drugged night with a boy who had killed fifteen people and was shot down by the S.W.A.T. team seventeen years ago. I had been terrorized in my basement by two assholes who had died before using my family to reenact a murder from 1968, a doctor with a Frankenstein complex who performed illegal abortions and was shot by his wife, and the deformed, resurrected version of his baby that had been dismembered. I had even been  _bitten_  by that little monster, an attack that had left an everlasting scar to forever remind me of the atrocities unfolding within my own home -- or my family's home; I wasn't sure if it was mine anymore. It wasn't even a home anymore, it was just a house. A house of horrors.  
  
        My eyes traveled down to my stomach. The shirt was loose enough not to outline to expanding flesh, but I could make out the tiniest protuberance where it was disrupting the fabric. I thought back to the ultrasound. I thought about how precious that black and white image was, that tiny kidney bean-sized blob with the arms and legs already extending. How could something so small, so innocent, be seen as any sort of nightmarish creature, let alone 'the Beast?' Nothing so precious could ever be something so terrifying.  
  
        Right?  
  
        The bile was creeping back up my throat. My eyes slid closed briefly, and I shook my head. "I'm sorry, I -- I can't do this. I have to go," I muttered. I didn't waste time waiting to see if he was finally going to spare me a glance before turning on my heel and rushing back up the aisle.  
  
        " _'And the woman was full of the filthiness of her fornication!'_ " he quoted after me, raising his voice in conviction. " _'The mother of harlots and abominations of the Earth!'_ "  
  
        I slammed my hand over my mouth and hurriedly shoved my way through the grand double doors. His scriptures followed me outside, echoing in my head long after his voice was sealed inside the chapel, prevented from reaching me after I successfully made my exit. They bounced back and forth off the walls of my mind until a throbbing pulsated against my temples. Everything around me appeared to be swimming in and out of focus. The disorientation pushed the bile further up my throat until I couldn't hold it down any longer.  
  
        Bitter tears stung my eyes as I emptied my stomach's contents into the bushes just beside the stone steps. Coughs wracked my heaving body in a poor attempt to rid of the uncomfortable burn the acid left behind. I braced a hand on the ledge serving as a railing while wrapping my other arm around my midsection. A miserable groan followed the conclusion of the foul regurgitation. Cringing in disgust, I dragged the back of my hand across my mouth, wiping away the traces left behind. I'd have to brush my teeth when I got back to the hotel to wash away the film and lingering taste of stomach acid coating the inside of my mouth.  
  
        The tears failed to recede even after I had finished. They just continued to build up until they were leaking down my face, rolling over my cheeks and dripping steadily from my chin, marking my second crying jag of the day. My lips parted to release the weak huffs of disbelieving laughter. What was happening to me? How did my life come to this? I used to be normal. I used to be an average teenage girl -- I'd had friends, a couple of boyfriends, a good relationship with my family. And now I was spilling my stomach's contents on church grounds after being told I was carrying the 'plague of nations' within my womb. Where did it all go awry?  
  
        Even as I asked myself, it was a sardonic query; I knew exactly where it had all started. Of course I could pin the blame on the miscarriage or the subsequent infidelity. Those were the events that kicked everything off. The move could also be accused. Nothing had gone right for any of us ever since we relocated across the country to live in the infamous Murder House. But I knew I couldn't pin it all on that. The problem was _me_. I did this to myself, I was the one who messed up. There was no one to blame but me.  
  
        Scowling at myself, I roughly swiped my hands over my cheeks, interrupting the salty rivulets of moisture. There was no point in crying. It wasn't going to solve anything, and it definitely didn't make me feel better. It made me feel worse, like I was so weak I couldn't handle anything being thrown at me, and I knew I could. It was how I had been brought up.  
  
        Lana Winters had not been my support for seventeen years only for me to throw her gifted strength back at her and become some delicate little flower that wilted whenever the sun disappeared briefly behind the clouds. The granddaughter of Mary Allison Walker was not a frail girl with a fragile psyche. Damn it, Abigail Ruth Harmon was not a damsel in distress; I was raised around a few of the strongest women, and I'd be damned if I didn't live up to their legacy.  
  
        Unfortunately I was left feeling kind of gross after purging my stomach. A fine layer of sweat had welled up on my flushed skin, completely overriding the effort I put into making myself feel like I wasn't as big of a mess, the perspiration beading through the sheet of foundation on my face. My eyes were still swollen and red, and the tears had carried my liner and mascara down my cheeks with them, leaving the puffy bags visible and prominent above the black streams. I wiped the distorted traces out of visibility, but I was left looking as worn and haggard as I felt, matching my appearance to my biliousness.  
  
        Usually I wouldn't care how I appeared other people. The effort I put into my appearance was for me, to make _me_ feel good, not anyone else. But that changed when I returned to the hotel. I was well aware of how awful I looked, and I had promised myself on the way back that I was just going to brush my teeth and wash my face and crawl into bed, and I planned to nap off the lingering nausea. And if I could manage to get up to my room without more than a couple of witnesses, ideally just whoever was stationed at the front counter, that would be perfect. Both Liz and Iris were behind the desk now. They spared me small greetings, Iris merely nodding in my direction, which I briefly returned before rushing for the elevator, which unfortunately had two others waiting for it as well. I was thankful neither of them commented on my horrible appearance, though I did spot the surprise and faint concern in their eyes.  
  
        My self-esteem was not particularly high nor low, it was just on the lesser side of average here lately, but it took a major hit when the golden doors parted and the couple in front of me entered before turning to face the entrance, revealing them to be two of the most beautiful people I'd ever seen.  
  
        One of them was a slim woman with pale blonde hair. She was around my height, but on her feet were heels that were several inches tall, leading me to the conclusion that she was actually several inches shorter. Her lips were full and painted a dark, sultry red, and her hazel eyes popped with the silver shadow and winged liner. At her side was an athletically built man that towered over me. His dark brown hair was perfectly coiffed, and the blue of his eyes was intensely piercing, sharper than his sculpted jawline. His arm was wrapped protectively around the woman's slender waist.  
  
        I felt intimidated just being in their presence. Their beauty was almost surreal. When their eyes landed on me, I could almost feel every remaining crumb of self-confidence shrivel up and be squashed beneath their designer shoes, the destruction exhibiting itself through the further coloring of my already flushed cheeks.  _This day just keeps getting better . . .  
  
        _The man's icy gaze swept over me with disinterest as I neared the elevator. He withdrew his hand from the panel. "You'll have to take the next one," he informed me. His tone wasn't necessarily rude, just indifferent, but it wasn't exactly friendly either.  
  
        My feet paused their movement as I stopped a little ways from the closing doors. Blinking slightly, I gave a brief nod of my head in understanding, downcasting my eyes and picking at my nail with my thumb. It didn't matter. I was planning on waiting for the next one anyway. Riding with strangers was always awkward and uncomfortable, last night being a prime example, and I really didn't feel like being in an enclosed space with someone whose beauty was continuously pummeling my already obliterated self-esteem. That was the last thing I needed right now.  
  
        "Donovan," the woman chided, casting her companion a reprimanding glare, and placed her hand on the edge of the door, holding it open as she flashed me a small smile, "You are more than welcome to join us."  
  
        Her voice held a tone of grace and elegance, perfectly complementing her poise. It caused a slight hesitancy with my response. I was almost afraid that a rejection would offend her. Clearly the man, Donovan, wouldn't care if I chose to wait. He didn't want me sharing the space with them anyway. But this woman, there was something about her, something vaguely familiar that tickled the back of my mind, but I couldn't recall when or if I ever saw her before now. So, to avoid further frustration, I just pushed it to the back of my mind and thanked her before stepping into the elevator alongside them.  
  
        After asking to which floor I was headed, the woman pressed the tip of her gloved finger into the corresponding button, a look of disbelief briefly appearing before her confidence washed it away. She casted her eyes over to me as I stood awkwardly by her side. I could feel her gaze on me even though I wasn't looking, training my own attention on my destroyed cuticles, the weight of the scrutiny bearing down on me. Maybe I should have declined after all.  
  
        "I don't believe we've met."  
  
        Blinking, I turned my head to look at her, a little surprised she was still attempting to carry a conversation. It took my brain a second to comprehend her words and yet another to formulate a response. Clearing my throat, I forced a tactful smile, not wanting to appear impolite. "No. I, uh, just got here last night."  
  
        She nodded her head. A civilized beam curled her lips upwards and parted them slightly to reveal a glint of startlingly white teeth. "I see. And what brings you here . . . ?" she inquired, trailing off at the end. Inwardly I gained a bit of comfort back knowing that not everyone seemed to know who I was. It almost granted me with a sense of normality.  
  
        "Abigail," I provided, "I just needed a place to stay." Swallowing, and then grimacing at the reminder of the acid coating my throat, I sighed quietly. "Hopefully not for too much longer though."  
  
        The woman's groomed brows furrowed delicately in her visible concern. Her companion's eyes rolled away from us, a bored expression marking his otherwise flawless feaures. His impartiality, while somewhat refreshing as near everyone at the hotel appeared interested in me for one reason or another, was bordering on a rudeness that was beginning to aggravate my already frayed nerves. I tried to ignore him and focus on what awaited me in my room: a bed and a chance to nap off the vomitus remains that lingered from earlier.  
  
        "Well, we are welcome to have you, Abigail," she told me before gracefully extending her hand. "I'm Elizabeth."  
  
        I slipped my hand into hers. The glove covering up to her forearm was made of fine silk, the cool material feeling lovely against my flushed skin. Turning my attention back to the woman herself, I offered up something resembling a smile, though I felt it probably appeared more as a grimace. "Nice to meet you. Do you live here?" I wondered. Her choice of wording, the way she said _'we are welcome'_ led to me believe she was an actual resident and not just a visitor. That wasn't unheard of, but I was just curious, at least curious enough to ask.  
  
        "Of course we live here," Donovan scoffed.  
  
        My eyes snapped to him, but Elizabeth beat me to it. A prominent frown darkened her radiant features as she swiftly reached out and slapped the back of her hand against his chest. " _Donovan Locke_ ," she hissed, "be _nice_." She turned back to me with a vaguely annoyed expression as I dwelled slightly on his name. Locke -- that was Iris' last name; were they related? "Just ignore him, he often forgets his manners." She shot another glare at him, prompting him to heave a heavy yet silent sigh, once again rolling his eyes away from us. "But to answer your question, we do live here. Penthouse suite," she explained.  
  
        I wasn't surprised by that. They seemed like the type of people to live in a penthouse suite. They certainly looked to have the money for it. That thought only served to remind me on how little I was running on now. Currently all I had were my paychecks and my savings account, if I had to resort to dipping into that. Envy rose up within me at how easy I imagined life was for them. They probably didn't have to worry about keeping a steady stream of income to pay for their shelter, or worry about how they were going to sustain day to day, or worry about what was going to happen when their money had been all used up.  
  
        No. They didn't have to worry about any of that. Neither of them were unwed teenage mothers who were currently banished from their house and left with nowhere to go. That was _me_. Because everything else in my life had long since malfunctioned and gone to shit, why not throw away my present and future as well?  
  
        The _'ding'_ of the elevator coming to a stop at the sixth floor shook me from my wallowing. I blinked as the golden doors slid open to reveal the familiar hallway. Elizabeth's hand fell on my arm, startling me slightly, but effectively bringing me out of my head. "Are you okay? You look unwell," she observed. Her careful tone suggested she was trying not to offend me. I didn't think I would be terribly insulted with anything that she could have said concerning my appearance; I knew how I looked. Especially compared to her.  
  
        "I . . . haven't been feeling too well," I explained briefly, swallowing uncomfortably with the topic and bringing my hands around to my shirt, tugging at the hem of my shirt. "Nausea. Some days are worse than others."  
  
        Elizabeth nodded her head. It appeared she accepted my answer, which meant she hadn't been able to tell I was pregnant, which brought me a miniscule amount of relief. Perhaps I wasn't as large as I felt I was. She flashed me a sympathetic smile. "Well, get some rest, don't strain yourself. Hopefully you'll get to feeling better soon."  
  
        We exchanged the general parting words and I stepped out into the hallway. Behind me the doors closed, the elevator once again ascending through the shaft, up to the penthouse suite they inhabited. Breathing deeply, I continued on to my room, only to be stopped by someone asking, "You got a light?"  
  
        I turned around at the sudden voice, surprised to see a woman standing a little behind me, not far in front of the elevator. She was taller than average, though not by much, just a little taller than myself. Her blonde hair was frizzy and crimped to hell. Her lanky body was garbed in a cheetah print jacket over a dark purple top that left little to the imagination, a miniskirt, and a pair of ripped fishnet stockings leading down into a pair of boots. Tear tracks ran through the smudged maquillage drowning her face, and the stench of cigarettes wafted off of her in strong waves, an unlit one even dangling from her fingers as she awaited my answer.  
  
        My brows furrowed at her abrupt appearance. I hadn't seen her when coming down the hall. Had I been so lost and caught up in everything else that I had just missed her? Surely the stench would have alerted me. "No, I don't," I replied. My voice was curt, sharper than I had intended, but it didn't seem to bother her. She merely shrugged and pocketed the stick of tobacco.  
  
        "Didn't think you would." She walked forward and nodded towards the side. "That your room?" When I confirmed that the door she was asking about, the one marked as sixty-four, she smirked. "So you _are_ her."  
  
        "I'm sorry?"  
  
        "You're the chick March is obsessed with." Her liner-smudged eyes scanned me up and down. "Aren't you a little young for him?"  
  
        So much for the faint semblance of normality that Donovan and Elizabeth had granted me. Apparently I was back to being recognized for literally nothing. All because the owner of the hotel had taken an interest in me. According to Ms. Evers, I just reminded him of someone he once knew, and according to this nineties-styled woman, it was beyond an interest; apparently it was an _obsession_. Which I hoped was just an exaggeration on her part. Surely he wasn't _obsessed_ with me. That seemed a little stretched to me. Then again, so did being impregnated by a ghost and having this guy take a disturbing interest in me after speaking once, so what the hell did I know?  
  
        Not wanting to continue the conversation, I frowned at her and shook my head. "I'm not doing this," I declined. I turned back towards my room.  
  
        "You don't have a choice, babe," the woman called behind me. "Once that psycho sets his eyes on something, he doesn't let it go." Ignoring her, I jammed the key into my lock, swiftly turning it. "You're his now, babe."  
  
        The door slammed shut behind me. Leaning against the wood for a second, I breathed deeply, shaking my head before pushing off with a heavy exhale. God, I missed the days where I could just relax, where I could go about my business without any crazy interruptions. Unfortunately I hadn't had that luxury since I was about fifteen. I hadn't realized it at the time, but that had been more of a luxury than any amount of money and anything it could buy, and I yearned for just one day like that again. Just one.  
  
        But of course that was too much to ask. I had to deal with psychopathic ghosts, their developing offspring, and now another suggested psychopath who apparently had garnered an obsession for me. If that didn't just sum up my life, I didn't know what did.  
  
        Once I had fulfilled my promise to myself, my teeth had been brushed twice to rid of the lingering taste and all traces of makeup and perspiration had been washed from my face, I crawled into bed. The pregnancy book was shoved aside lazily so I could lie down over the covers and the pillow it had been covering was then hugged to my body. My earbuds had been inserted and were cycling through my phone's music. I wasn't paying attention to what song was playing. My mind was too busy running through everything that had happened.  
  
        Apparently, according to Ralph Hamilton, I was set to birth the Devil in seven months. The notion was absurd. It was just a baby. It was _my_ baby, my son or daughter, and there was no way in hell it was going to come with complementary horns and a tail. That was like the religious beliefs they held during the Salem Witch Trials. It was extreme and ridiculous and had no basis in fact whatsoever.  
  
        Still, it was an incredibly disturbing thought, one that plagued my mind enough to block out everything else. Just the image elicited a shudder. I reached down and tugged my shirt up to reveal my bump, running a hand along the smooth protrusion, envisioning a little demon inside. But eventually that faded to bring up the ultrasound image. That tiny bean that had definitely grown since then. The little figure that would continue to grow into a human being that would then just continue to grow until he had his own little beans to nurture.  
  
        What Dr. Hamilton saw on the ultrasound had to be a machine malfunction. It just _had_ to be.

* * *

**Things just keep getting better for Abbie. Will things ever look up for her?**   
  
**There will be a lot more time spent at the hotel with James, but I promise, there will be no romance with Mr. March in this installment. Tate will remain the only romantic interest in this story. However, that being said, I refuse to give anything away, but I will say that introducing the Hotel Cortez and everyone within it will certainly play a significant role later on in Abbie's journey.**   
  
**And I'm actually really curious as to how you guys are receiving James' interest in our momma-to-be. What are your predictions? I'd love to hear some ideas as to where you guys think it's headed! Or even just about the story in general, it doesn't have to be about this little hiatus from the Murder House.**


	28. Appetite

I had nearly forgotten how tiring work could be. With my extended time off for Thanksgiving, I hadn't had to stand on my feet all day and force myself to be polite to rude customers, and to be suddenly thrown back into that was a little disarming. Luckily it didn't take long for me to get back into the swing of things. It was just more insufferable than usual.  
  
        The past couple of days had been hell for me. This pregnancy was not running smoothly. I had scheduled an appointment with Dr. Kirkland, set in a few days, to discuss the rapid changes. Until it was time, I just had to deal with my changing body, as well as the finicky symptoms. Heartburn was starting to make a more frequent appearance to accompany the nausea and bloating. Fatigue was also beginning to set in. Not enough to be a major obstacle, but just enough to be annoying. It certainly made it more difficult for me to focus on my work.  
  
        The only thing that kept me functional enough to power through my shift was the knowledge that I had to make the money somehow, and the assurance that Eva was right at my side all seven hours. She was there to give me a good kick into action when I was beginning to slack and keep me entertained enough to where I almost didn't mind having to stand on my swollen feet all day, and to hold my hair back when the coffee had me purging my insides, which fortunately was not as often as it once was. I had missed working with her. Evaline Warren was as much my rock as Tate was; she helped to keep ahold of what little sanity I had remaining.  
  
        The café had been unusually busy, but things were beginning to slow down now, and Eva and I had been granted with the luxury of a small break. We picked a table close to the counter for easy access. It felt so nice to rest. My ankles and feet sure thanked me for the brief reprieve. They were throbbing to the beat of my heart in response to the dull ache that pained them. Upon lowering myself in a seat with a groan, Eva taking hers across from me, I had immediately reached down to rub at the bloated flesh.  
  
        The action had prompted Eva to laugh, which in turn brought a scowl to my face. It wasn't fair that my body had to be wracked with various alterations, changes that could be either painful or just irritating, while everyone else around me got to carry on like normal. I was only nine weeks along, right at the cusp of my second trimester, and already I was done with the whole pregnant thing. But I would just remind myself that in a short time I would have my baby in my arms, and that thought made all the suffering worth it, the idea of physically holding my baby for the first time was enough to get me to stop sulking for a little while.  
  
        Eva reminded me of this when I voiced my complaints about the swelling. She had taken a keen interest in my condition, though I was sure she was only trying to be a good friend, expressing her concern for us. I had brought her up to date on my current situation. As my closest friend I felt she had a right to know. Especially since she had been there for me ever since I discovered I was pregnant.  
  
        A frown marred her usually jovial expression. Her eyes had lost their glimmer of merriment to cloud over with unabashed worry and consternation. She uncapped her water bottle to take a sip. "So, have you spoken to your family, at all?" she wondered.  
  
        My hand dipped into the small bag on the table as I plucked out another miniature pretzel. I shook my head. "Not since Thanksgiving," I admitted, popping the twisted dough into my mouth. The salt pricked blandly at my taste buds.  
  
        "Are you _going_ to?"  
  
        "Of course I will. Just . . . not now."  
  
        And it wasn't as though I hadn't considered it. For the past few days I'd thought about contacting them. I knew I needed to, to at least let them hear it directly from me that I was safe or try and sort this all out, but I just couldn't bring myself to pick up the phone. I wasn't ready to speak to them yet. Constance had let them know that I was all right, that I had found a place to stay for now, and she had the number to reach me at the hotel. The lack of calls there assured me she hadn't yet given it to them. She'd promised to keep it to herself until I was ready to give them a way to contact me.  
  
        Of course they'd already tried numerous times on my cell phone. The call log was overflowing with the same numbers starting from that evening. Mom, Ben, Violet -- they'd all tried, and they still were, but between work and the hotel, I couldn't pick up, and the ones that I could were either ignored and forwarded to voicemail or rejected. I just wasn't ready to talk to any of them yet. They had hurt me in more ways than should have been possible, and kicking me out of the house was a betrayal that I couldn't bring myself to forgive, so until I was ready, they weren't going to hear from me. At least not directly.  
  
        Eva pursed her lips. Her eyes carefully swept over my face, flicking back and forth, squinting as she appeared to be searching for something. For what, I wasn't sure, and I couldn't tell by her sigh whether she found it or not. "Right. You'll know when you're ready, I suppose, and you do have Constance to run interference. So how's the hotel?"  
  
        My nose scrunched in thought. I considered that question carefully. The answer really depended on which aspect she was asking about. The hotel itself was gorgeous. It was certainly more luxurious than any place I'd ever stayed at. Even the ski lodge in Colorado we'd all stayed at during Christmas five years ago hadn't been nearly as nice as the Hotel Cortez. Entering the dated hotel was genuinely like stepping into a grander time. Some of the inhabitants even furthered that feeling. But there just something, whether it be the odd feeling I got about the property or how difficult some of the inhabitants could be, that made the experience just a little less enjoyable.  
  
        James March popped into my mind. He had turned out to be incredibly frustrating. The other day I had finally gotten the chance to confront him about his unprecedented generosity concerning the meal requests he'd apparently put in for my stay. I did thank him, but when I made my protest on the issue clear, he outright refused to withdraw the requests. To make his point clear he had even walked away in the middle of the conversation to leave behind the sense of his finality on the subject. I had been left to wallow in a dangerous stew of frustration and confusion that left me irritated for a good part of the day.  
  
        Sally McKenna, the woman with a penchant for cigarettes and nineties fashion, also came to mind. She wasn't necessarily frustrating. It was just more or less of a situation where I could take her or leave her. After she had warned me about the owner's apparent obsession with me, which I wasn't ready to refute just yet given the recent incident, she'd taken up the habit of chatting with me whenever we crossed paths, which was more often than I would have preferred. The main issue I had was the cigarette perpetually dangling between her fingers. I wouldn't have minded as much had she just been more mindful of the toxic chemicals she was exposing my baby to, especially after I'd asked her to at least make the effort to blow the smoke away from me, which she did that one time before seemingly forgetting my request.  
  
        Now I just tried to avoid her as best as I could. My baby -- my little bean, as I'd been referring to him in my mind -- was going to be exposed to so much without adding poison to the list.  
  
        Not everyone made such a bad impression, though. Liz was actually very personable, and I found that I rather enjoyed her company. She would make small talk whenever she was behind the desk. The other day we had actually gotten immersed in an intriguing discussion about great works of literature and the film's portrayal of the novelization. It turned out we had a lot in common in that department. More so than Iris and I did, at least as far as I knew, given we hadn't actually said more than a few words to each other since I'd checked in. Iris was just a woman of few words, but underneath the hardened exterior, I would bet that she was a genuinely lovely person, possibly even as caring as Ms. Evers, who continued to show up at my room daily to deliver my unwanted meals and to clean up a bit.  
  
        This morning as I left for work I had pushed my untouched breakfast outside the room. Maybe action would be better than words, considering protesting and arguing hadn't gotten me anywhere; I was hoping I could be left in relative peace now and not be bothered with the meals I hadn't requested. Given the man's insufferable persistence on the matter, however, I ensured my hopes remained low. If anything I partially expected to be bothered twice as much now that I had made such an outright refusal of his wishes.  
  
        Elizabeth and Donovan were the only ones I hadn't seen since our first encounter. Liz explained that they preferred to stay up in their suite to keep away from everyone. I could appreciate that as I often felt like doing the same. Except they could actually afford to do so while I had to go out and earn money to support baby Langdon.  
  
        "It serves its purpose," I settled.  
  
        My friend nodded her head in acceptance, though from the slight creasing of her brow, she knew I wasn't telling her something. But she didn't prod for information. She merely reached to steal a couple of pretzels and gazed out the window, releasing a soft sigh as her eyes swept across the crowd of tourists passing by. I chewed on another pretzel with a small grimace. The snack just wasn't doing it for me. I wanted to snack on something, and I couldn't figure out what, but clearly these weren't what I wanted. Or perhaps they weren't what the baby wanted.  
  
        The first trimester was generally when the cravings started. I hadn't experienced any yet, but perhaps that's what this was. Maybe I was craving something. But I didn't know what it could be. I just hoped it didn't turn out to be something completely revolting. When Mom was pregnant with me, apparently she always ate canned tuna, onions, and Oreo cookies together, and then proceeded to wash it down with a glass of orange juice; with Violet it was apparently Fruit Loops cereal with crumbled spicy nacho Doritos. The thought alone was enough to make me gag. Her go-to lunch with Joel, which was thankfully just a _little_ less disgusting, was a cheese and pickle sandwich dunked in chicken soup. While not nearly as bad as the other cravings, it was still hard for me to watch her eat; the memory of it was enough to churn my stomach.  
  
        "What's the face for, Baby Momma?"  
  
        Shaking my head, I tossed the pretzel in my hand onto the table, swiping her water to take a sip. "I can't figure out what I want," I muttered.  
  
        Eva's features twisted into an expression of vague bemusement. Her brow lifted in question. "Care to elaborate on that, love? Or would you prefer to sulk alone?" she quipped.  
  
        "I'm not sulking," I contended with a small scoff, "I'm craving . . . something." I felt my face contort in discontent. "It's bugging the hell out of me."  
  
        To say I was relieved when my shift ended would be an understatement. There were so many factors that had a role in making that last half feel much longer than it actually was. All of them were, as per usual, attributed to the life taken up residence within my womb. Just as everything else in my life was centered around the one inside of me. My mood had soured considerably since my break. It had gotten so bad that even Eva had tried to keep any contact with me behind the counter as brief as possible. After our shift I apologized to her; I knew it wasn't exactly my fault, given how out of whack my hormones were, but I still felt guilty. I didn't want to be one of those expectant women to rely on their hormones as a crutch and use them to excuse any uncivil behavior.  
  
        The craving hadn't let up any, and I still hadn't figured out what it was. My mind had run through a list of various foods, hoping to score with one of them, but nothing had clicked. I was starting to worry that perhaps it could be a pica craving. Eva had explained to me that when her mother had been pregnant with her younger twin siblings, she'd had the non-food craving, and her desire for wet concrete had gotten so bad that whenever it rained, she would sit at the window and stare longingly at the sidewalk. With everything else going on, I really didn't need to fight an urge to lick a brick or eat Sally's ashes; that would push even me over the precipice.  
  
        As I was pulling away from  _Cafecito Organico_ , my phone rang, and, expecting the caller to be someone from home, I was surprised to see Lana's name pop up on the screen. With how crazy everything was, it felt like years since I had last talked to her, so I eagerly accepted the call and put it on speaker. Her voice instantly came through, stopping me before I could even say anything, and I physically flinched at the intensity behind the usually dulcet tone.  
  
         _"Abigail, I just spoke to your mother. She says she hasn't seen or talked to you in four days. She and your father are worried sick, now what the hell is going on?"  
  
        _My eagerness waned as my eyes rolled of their own volition. Of course the call would be about this. I hadn't any reason to expect it could possibly be anything else, but I had just been hoping for a change of pace, maybe a small, pleasant conversation that would temporarily take my mind off of the insanity suffocating my life. Lana and Marion weren't due back for a few more days. I had been planning on telling them everything upon their return, not wanting them to worry about anything going on here when they had Marion's family counting on and enjoying them, but apparently that time had moved up to now.  
  
        "Yeah, I'm sure they're real worried," I said dryly, "It's only natural to worry about someone after you get rid of them."  
  
         _"Watch the attitude, Abigail Ruth. Now talk to me, tell me what's going on. I can't help if I don't know."_  
  
        "Violet ratted and I was kicked out." I cursed as the driver in front of me abruptly slammed his brakes, causing me to do the same to avoid a collision, as some idiot swerved out in front of him to merge into the lane. "God fucking -- Lana, I'm gonna have to call you back," I sighed, my aggravation pouring into my curt tone. "I'm driving right now, and everyone on this road is a damn moron."  
  
        Lana protested at first, insisting that we talk about this, but after I yelled out my window at some asshole who cut me off, she agreed that the conversation should wait until I was off the road. We severed the line with the promise that I would call her back once I returned to my room. Which would take longer than usual as I decided to take a detour at the last minute.  
  
        As I wandered the aisles of the closest grocery store, I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I knew I would know it when I saw it. My plan was to go with whatever jumped out at me. That led to me grabbing a jar of pickles and a container of grape jelly. The idea of them together normally would have made my stomach churn, but apparently it was what my little bean wanted, because my mouth was practically salivating in anticipation. I couldn't wait until I was at the hotel and ended up munching in a jelly-dipped pickle while sitting in the market's parking lot.  
  
        A happy hum escaped me as I enjoyed the eccentric flavor. Never would I have imagined eating such a combination. But at the moment I couldn't imagine eating anything else. The vinegar burst forth and mingled with the grape, casting a pleasant savor over my taste buds, one that would have ordinarily triggered my nausea. I was so engrossed in satisfying my unconventional craving that I hadn't noticed the figure approaching my car until they were knocking at my window.  
  
        My body jerked at the sudden scare, my heart racing, and I whipped my head around to see a man waving at me once he captured my attention. From what I could make out, he was lanky with light eyes and short brown hair, and his left side appeared to be covered in scar tissue from severe burns. My guess would be third-degree. His arm was curled into his chest as a result. Breathing deeply to calm my startled nerves, I set aside the food and rolled down the window, but only enough to talk to him; I didn't know this man, he could be anyone.  
  
        "Are you Abigail Harmon?" he inquired. "Ben's daughter?"  
  
        I stared at him incredulously. The first thought that occurred to me was that something had happened to my father and they'd sent an authority to alert me, but I quickly realized how foolish that was. This man clearly was not a police officer. It made me wonder how he knew my father, even more so how he knew my name. A bad feeling crept up my spine.  
  
        "That depends," I replied tersely as I moved surreptitiously to insert my key into the ignition, preparing to flee should the need to do so arise, "What is this about?"  
  
        A small smile cracked across his face. I supposed it was supposed to be placating or reassuring, but with his disfiguration, it had the opposite effect. As horrible as that was to say. "My name is Larry Harvey. I used to live in your house, back in '93. There's a few things you should know."  
  
        My eyes scanned over him once more. I knew who this man was. Larry Harvey. His name would be short for Lawrence. The _Eternal Darkness_ website had covered his time of ownership. He'd had a wife and two kids who had perished in a fire. My guess was that the fire had been the cause of the burns littering the left half of his body. It was disheartening. He had lost his family in that fire. That should have been punishment enough for his indiscretion, but he had ended up physically scarred as well, and he was probably haunted whenever he looked in the mirror. That seemed a little harsh even to me. It wasn't something I'd even wish on my father despite everything.  
  
        "You know who I am," he acknowledged.  
  
        "I do, yes," I admitted, relaxing back in my seat, slightly more comfortable now that I knew who this man was to some extent, "But how do you know who I am?"  
  
        Honestly, by this point, I was getting tired of people I had never met before already having some knowledge of me. Life wasn't supposed to work like that for average people. Not that anything about my life was average at this point, but it wasn't like I was famous either; people on the street didn't know me, they didn't even bother to acknowledge me. But the moment I stepped into the Cortez it was as though I were a D-list celebrity or something, at least to the residents there, for some reason I had yet to uncover. The closest I had come to an answer was Sally McKenna's claim of James March's obsession over me, and even that didn't explain how the owner had known my surname minutes after me checking in without reading the log.  
  
        Frowning, I pushed that line of questioning aside, returning my attention to Larry. I had been bothered by those things for days, and I doubted I was going to get a proper explanation anytime soon, so it would be better for me to focus on the issue at hand. My brain was too overwhelmed with everything to concentrate on so much at once.  
  
        "I'm an acquaintance of your father's," Larry said. "He wouldn't listen to me; he's even getting a restraining order against me." Despite how my anxiety kicked up half a notch, I could see the glimmer of desperation in his eye, the plea for me to do what Ben hadn't and listen. " But you need to hear me out and let me explain. That house --"  
  
        "-- Is Satan's playground, I know." And his  _home_ was apparently within my womb. Sighing, I shifted in my seat, resting my hand on my stomach as the conversation with Dr. Hamilton came to mind. "I know what happened there, I've met a lot of the others."  
  
        He smiled wryly and shook his head. "Don't fool yourself. You only know what _he_ wants you to know."  
  
        I frowned at the cryptic message. "Who?"  
  
        "Oh I'm sure you'll find out in _due_ time unless you heed my warning and get out of there before you end up like the others." His eyes bore into mine with a severity that unnerved me. "Listen, Abigail, for the sake of your baby, you need to get away from that house. Before it's too late."  
  
        My eyes floated down to my bump. It didn't bother me that he had noticed. I was growing so rapidly that the day had to come sooner rather than later. It bothered me that he seemed genuinely concerned about me being in that house. And the fact that he was a survivor, and therefore knew what he was talking about, only instilled within me further that I should listen to his plea and heed his warning.  
  
        But I knew what that house would do to me, to _us_ , if I stayed long enough to raise my child in it. I knew that we probably wouldn't survive in that house, and even if we did, I knew for a fact I wouldn't want my son or daughter living in a place where multiple deaths had occurred, especially since the victims still resided there. That wasn't an environment for anyone. _I_ didn't want to live like that, there was no way I would allow an innocent child to, not _my_ baby.  
  
        When I glanced back up, Larry had disappeared, obviously having given his word on the subject. Despite already knowing what he had told me, it still made me stop and think, and it stuck with me. Especially the part about how I only knew what 'he' wanted me to know. And the emphasis on the 'in _due_ time.' Was that a reference to my increasingly apparent pregnancy? If so, then only one person came to mind, and I didn't think I was emotionally stable enough at the moment to venture down that path.  
  
        Following his disappearance, I sat behind the wheel and considered everything concerning what he had told me, returning to my pickles and jelly. Before I knew it I was left with only a few cucumbers floating in vinegar. So I trudged back inside to pick up another jar, and another thing of jelly just to be safe, before finally heading back to the hotel.  
  
        Iris stood behind the front desk. As usual she looked bored out of her mind. With a job like hers I didn't blame her. For such a grand establishment the hotel certainly didn't see a lot of guests. She spared me a brief greeting that I returned as I stepped into the elevator. We hadn't spared each other more than the instinctive greetings when I'd pass her in the lobby, and I was okay with that. Having someone seeming not to particularly care about me was a nice change from everyone always knowing my business.  
  
        Precariously balancing the grocery bag and its contents on my hip, I jammed my hand into my clutch, my fingers feeling around for my key. Normally it would be in the front zipper but I'd accidentally spilled everything earlier and had just tossed it all back inside because I hadn't had the time to reorganize it. The elevator dinged with the arrival of my floor. I remained inside the carriage while seeking out the key to my room. I was less likely to drop anything than if I tried to walk.  
  
        Upon grasping the detailed brass, I released a noise of triumph, ridiculously happy about one thing having gone right after weeks of everything going wrong. It was a small victory, but it was a victory nonetheless, and I was determined to revel in it until it was no longer gratifying. Or until something else popped up that stole the joy from me.  
  
        "From the sound of it, I trust you had a pleasant evening?"  
  
        My eyes swiftly flicked up to see the one person I was sure would be the aforementioned 'something else.' He was standing a little ways from the elevator, dressed as immaculate as the other times I'd encountered him with his decorative cane in hand, and I had just been too distracted to notice. I suppressed any expression or noise that would convey my displeasure at his presence and forced myself to be polite. It was more difficult than I would have thought with my wariness as to his reasoning for loitering around the corridor; I suspected it probably had something to do with the cart of untouched food that appeared to have been removed from outside my door since I decided to leave it there.  
  
        Instead of coming across as rude and ignoring him, which I was severely tempted to do, I stepped out of the cage with a fake smile plastered across my face. It was small, and it was probably received as more of a grimace, but it was an effort on my end to be friendly. That was a trait I hadn't exactly made a genuine effort to convey recently. Urbane small talk here and there, sure, but I doubted I had come across as any variation of friendly. Although apparently I did look approachable, with all of the residents making their introductions and lingering around after was any indication, though I had no clue as to what made me seem so. As far as I was concerned I'd been a proper bitch ever since the pregnancy hormones had heightened my irritability and lowered my tolerance for bullshit.  
  
        "It could have been better," I replied as I neared where he stood, as though waiting for me, hoisting the grocery bag up so I could regain my hold on it. "You, Mr. March?"  
  
        His eyes tracked my every movement with the focus of a predator. The intensity created a tiny shiver that tumbled down my spine, but I shoved that aside and walked past him, gripping the key tight in my hand as I approached my door. All I needed to do was determine what brought him to me this time, hopefully placate him, and then retreat inside to return Lana's call, assuaging her and Marion's concerns before indulging in some more pickles and jelly and crawling into bed for what would hopefully be a decent night's sleep. But I knew it was not going to be that easy. Nothing in my life was that easy.  
  
        "My evening was well." He sauntered after me with a purposeful stride. "Ms. Evers has informed me that you failed to finish your breakfast this morning." His tone held a hint of apprehension, almost as though he were testing me; for what, I wasn't sure, but I  _was_  sure that I wasn't going to like wherever this was leading. "I do hope this loss of appetite is not a symptom of you being unwell, Miss Harmon."  
  
        Eyebrows scrunching, I frowned at him. "I'm not sick, and I didn't fail to finish my breakfast. I chose not to eat it." A single brow quirked at my confession, but he remained silent, adopting an almost intrigued expression that encouraged me to continue. "I asked you to stop, and you refused. Just because you insist on being an ass about it doesn't mean I plan on indulging you," I said.  
  
        "You wound me, darling."  
  
        I sighed. Coming to a stop in front of my door, I positioned the key between my fingers and eyed him wearily, both tired and wary of what else he could possibly have to say to me. "Will that be all? Or do you plan on seeing me into my room in case I go missing between now and me closing my door?"  
  
        His lips twitched up into a grin at my dry reference to our first encounter. "I hardly think that will be necessary, my dear, unless my presence is of a comfort to you; in which case, what kind of monster would I be to turn down such a request?" He smirked down at me and leaned casually on his ornate walking stick.  
  
        My ebbing annoyance at life was beginning to crawl its way back. This man tested my patience like no other. Somehow he was able to get under my skin and claw his way right to my nerves. And this was only the third time I had talked to him since renting the room. Yet, each time he'd managed to build up my irritation, and this time appeared to be no different. My brain reasoned with me that I should stop the conversation where it was and make my escape before it escalated to that point. But I couldn't bring myself to allow him the last word like last time, when he'd just walked away from me, leaving me in a muddled state of vexation and confusion and everything between.  
  
        "What the hell do you want?"  
  
        He let out a sound reminiscent of a chuckle at my impatience. Clearly he was enjoying the effect he had on me. As if that wasn't clear enough to me already, given it seemed like he deliberately went out of his way to ruin my day. One would think the owner of such a marvelous hotel would have better things to do than bother a teenage girl.  
  
        "Well, my fiery little bearcat, if I may be so bold --"  
  
        "Are you asking for my permission?"  
  
        I hadn't the faintest idea what the hell a 'bearcat' was, or why he had referred to me as 'his,' and frankly, I couldn't bring myself to care at the moment. Although I did store the phrase away for later evaluation. Right now he was quickly grating his way down to my last couple of nerves. Nerves which were already stretched tight and frayed. It would only take a few more moves before they snapped. At which point in time it was hard telling what I was liable to do. The most likely scenario was I'd leave him stranded in the hall while I locked myself in the room.  
  
        However, the image of me punching him sprung to mind, and I couldn't help but consider the idea. Only if the situation called for it, of course, but with my raging hormones, I supposed anything could happen.  
  
        James beamed. "Quite the contrary, my dear," he corrected.  
  
        The oxygen I had inhaled was released in a heavy exhale, conveying my waning patience with this situation -- with this man. "Just as well. Probably couldn't stop you anyway," I muttered. The last part was meant mostly for my ears, but he had heard it anyway.  
  
        "Ah, now you're on the trolley, dear." He punctuated his unusual praise with a flourish of his hand. "But if I may, darling, I would simply adore the opportunity to get better acquainted, if gifted the chance." His eyes lit up with a certain passion; was that hope or mischief? "Perhaps tonight over dinner."  
  
        My eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. I blinked at him and tried to determine whether he was serious or just being an ass. The longer I stared, the more I scrutinized, the more I realized that this wasn't a joke. He was serious. This was a legitimate invitation. It could still end up being a fluke, maybe he had something planned for me, but the request was genuine. He wanted to have dinner with me. Tonight.  
  
        As though he could predict my response, or maybe it was clear from my expression what I was going to say, he gave me a knowing look. His smirk broadened. "It would benefit you to know that I am not a man whose offer you should wish to decline, Miss Harmon. Especially when you have offended my previous generosity towards you," he warned. His tone, while still light, had taken on an almost dark undertone.  
  
        Everything about this unnerved me. Especially him. There was just something about him that made my skin crawl. Not in disgust or repulsion, but he just made me uneasy, and nothing he had said or done had done anything to alter that. He had this way of looking at me that almost made me want to hide from him out of something akin to trepidation. There was a certain glint in his eye that revealed something potentially far more dangerous, or perhaps it was just a glimmer of passionate mischief, than he appeared upon first glance.  
  
        Swallowing, my mouth and throat suddenly having gone dry in my surprise, I moved my hand towards the lock. The brass key was inserted, but I didn't turn it just yet. I leveled him with a deceptively equable gaze. "I'm sorry I didn't eat your damn food, okay? But I did tell you I didn't want it. I am not indebted to you in any way, so don't you even try to guilt me into accepting your dinner invitation, because I _am_ declining. Now good night, Mr. March," I enunciated. The key was turned in the lock, and my eyes fell away from the owner, shifting to my bag as I adjusted in once more in my arms.  
  
        I mentally clapped myself on the back. Despite the discomfort he caused me, I refused to back down, and I faced him head on. Even if the matter was trivial, and subsequently nothing to be proud of, I was. Now all I had to do was dismiss the conversation. Or I could walk away like he did with me. That was the more preferable option.  
  
        James didn't bat an eye. In fact he seemed rather delighted. "Dinner will be at seven. I'll send Ms. Evers to fetch you when it is time," he informed me. I paused in my movements, having just opened my door, to turn and stare at him. It was like he hadn't heard a damn thing I'd said.  
  
        The fact that he deliberately ignored me,  _again_ , surpassed my increasing irritation. I was pissed.  
  
        "Now you listen here --"  
  
        "Darling," he sighed, seemingly exasperated with me, adopting a drawling voice, "Either you attend the dinner, or I shall bring the dinner to you." He tipped his head and appraised me with a look reminiscent of a parent scolding a misbehaving toddler. "Seven o'clock."  
  
        With that last little reminder, he strolled past me, whistling a cheery tune while twirling his cane. My gaze followed his retreating figure angrily. Who the hell did he think he was? He had no right to dictate what I was going to do and when. Oh how I wanted to go after him and give him a proper piece of my mind. The only thing that kept me from doing so was the grocery bag nearly slipping from my grasp. I tore my attention away from James and fumbled to catch it before it tumbled to the floor. He had turned the corner when I looked up again.  
  
        Just as well. It wouldn't have done me any good anyhow, and I had more important things to do with my time. Returning Lana's call was my top priority. I doubted the conversation would help relax me, but Lana had always been soothing, so I hoped her slight lisp would help calm my current seething.  
  
        While the phone rang, I twisted the top off the jars, settling down to enjoy what had swiftly become my favorite food. I was going to enjoy it while I could, because it was sure to make my stomach churn once I no longer had a human using my body for shelter. It honestly annoyed me that I was craving  _this_  but couldn't stomach even the scent of coffee. God, I was going to be in heaven when I could finally indulge in that succulent brewed bean once more; maybe it would offset the hell of everything else around me.  
  
         _"Abbie?"_  
  
        An amused smile touched my lips. She had probably been staring at the screen waiting for me to call. Situating myself on the bed, which I noticed had been made with what smelled with fresh linens, I replied, "Have you been waiting by the phone?"  
  
         _"Of course I have, Abbie, I'm worried about you."_  She called out to someone, probably Marion, before returning with a slightly sharper tone.  _"What in God's name took you so long? I thought you said you would call when you got off the road."_  
  
        Normally the sharp tone of voice, when I was in this mood, would have annoyed me just a little. But in this case I could understand. Lana wasn't angry with me. She was worried, she was concerned. With good reason, too, considering I had told her I had been kicked out, and then proceeded to cut the connection because the road was full of drivers who probably just bribed their instructor for their license. So I didn't feel the urge to snap something at her in unprompted retaliation. Instead I felt loved, because her worry reminded me that she cared for me a great deal, and I hadn't exactly felt that way recently.  
  
        My eyes began misting over with a glaze of tears that I quickly blinked away.  _Damn hormones_. I sniffed slightly and released a wavering sigh. "I'm sorry, Lana, I called as soon as I could," I apologized softly. My pickles and jelly had been lowered and forgotten as my emotions were beginning to override my craving for the moment.  
  
        On the other end, I could hear her take a deep breath before speaking once more, her tone more gentle than before. She must have picked up on my sentiments.  _"The important thing is that you're okay, sweetheart. Are you? Are you safe? Where are you staying?"_  
  
        Ignoring the first question, as I didn't want to worry her or Marion even more than I already had, seeing as how I wasn't as okay as they would be comfortable with, I revealed, "I promise I'm safe, I've rented out a room at the Hotel Cortez."  
  
        Sounding as though she were leaning away from the phone, or at least covering the mouthpiece with her hand, Lana relayed the information to who I could only assume was Marion. My assumption proved to be correct when I heard her voice reply to Lana. It was faint, and I could tell she was not very close to the phone, but I managed to pick up a couple of words. Something about the hotel being infamous or notorious for something. I was unable to capture all of it, but I wasn't terribly concerned with that; even if this hotel was infamous for a murder or something, it couldn't possibly be anywhere near as bad as the Murder House.  
  
        Nothing could be as bad as that.  
  
        After a moment of light arguing, nothing that sounded too serious, Lana returned to the call with a sigh.  _"The Cortez is a pretty grand hotel, Abigail . . . How much is the room?"_  she fretted.  
  
        "Well . . ." I exhaled loudly, lightly biting down on my bottom lip, "It's reasonable."  
  
        If I knew my honorary grandmother as well as I think I did, and I was pretty sure I knew her better than a lot of people did, she would be appalled at my financial situation. It was bad enough she was worrying about me while still in Michigan, and I was sure Marion was in the same frame of mind, which wasn't good considering she had her brother to help care for. I didn't want to give them any more reason to fret. Maybe I should have created a better line than  _'it's reasonable,'_  but I didn't want them thinking I couldn't handle the expenses. Which I couldn't for much longer. But they didn't need to know that.  
  
         _"Abigail,"_  she warned.  
  
        Her stern tone caused my upper lip to curl up in a grimace. "Eighty-nine a night."  
  
         _"Damn that father of yours."_  
  
        I released a small huff of laughter at her abrupt curse. Lana had never particularly liked Ben. Originally I had assumed it was because she didn't think he was good enough for her goddaughter, or that no one was good enough for her, but after hearing her story and reading the novelization of it, I wondered if perhaps Ben's profession didn't have something to do with her dislike of him. Or perhaps it was just him in general. Maybe there was something about him personally that rubbed her the wrong way.  
  
        Whatever her reason for disliking him, he had definitely made it onto her black list now.  
  
         _"He's no longer on my shit list, he's on my hit list."_  The phrasing coaxed another laugh from me.  _"Jesus H. Christ, I'm going to kill him, and then I'm going to kill your mother for allowing this to happen. But in the mean time,"_  she sighed, coming off her small tangent about my parents, though I could still hear the anger in her voice,  _"Marion and I can wire you some money. Just enough to help you until we return."_  
  
        "That's really not necessary," I protested. "I'm doing okay, really."  
  
         _"For now you are, but you don't make a lot at that job of yours, Abbie. What happens when you can't afford another night?"_  I didn't respond, because I didn't know what I would do when that happened; it was something that had me worried, and apparently it worried Lana, too.  _"We will wire you some money to get you through these next few days. Until then you just take it easy, okay, sweetheart? You don't want to place any unnecessary stress on your little one."_  
  
        "Lana, my whole  _life_  is unnecessary stress. My baby probably feels like a college student right now."  
  
        The noise that came from the other side was reminiscent of someone blowing a raspberry. It was a tut of vague amusement. I was sure it was in response to my latter statement, as my former was, sadly, very accurate. And she knew it. I think I'd been stressed since the day I was born. Now it was like it was just circling down the drain while I stood idly by, unable to intervene, unable to stop it. Everything was just falling to shit around me.  
  
         _"You know what I mean, Abbie, and I mean it; take it easy. Now, I've got to go, but we'll talk more tomorrow, okay? I love you, sweetheart, and so does Marion. I promise we'll be home soon, and then we can really get this all figured out. Just hang tight until then, sweetheart."_  
  
        Talking to her had been the nicest thing I'd experienced since Thanksgiving. Despite the topic, it was relaxing, and I needed that, especially after my infuriating encounter with the hotel's owner. Her voice just had a calming effect on me. It reminded me of a simpler time that seemed very much like a distant memory now. So it was great reluctance and a slightly weighted heart that I, after giving her the telephone number with the proper explanation, allowed our connection to be severed for the night.  
  
        I couldn't wait for them to return. It would be such a relief to see them again, to finally have a sense of comfort and safety from two people who had loved me for as long as I could remember, after being surrounded by virtual strangers who somehow always knew my business; sometimes it was as though they knew it before I did.  
  
        My phone lit up as I tapped the screen with my finger. I had been thinking about calling Constance, maybe see how everything was going over there and ask if she'd talked to Tate, but I decided it could wait until tomorrow. She probably had better things to do at six o'clock. Besides, if my gradually drooping eyelids and heavier limbs were any indication, I should have probably been getting ready for bed right about now. The fatigue was wearing me down much earlier than usual. So I decided to put up my craving indulgence and change out of my clothes into some pajamas.  
  
        James March and his dinner 'invitation' could kiss my ass.  
  
        As I lie under the freshly changed sheets, blinking wearily up at the ceiling through the darkness, I thought about my brief conversation with Lana. As short as it was, it did bring me some comfort, and I was almost glad she'd found out what happened before I had originally planned. With everything going on, I needed some familiarity, something more familiar than work and Eva, despite how fond of her I had become since starting at the coffee shop. I needed to feel like someone still cared.  
  
        My hands folded on top of my protruding abdomen. Failing to suppress my yawn, I rubbed the area absentmindedly, my eyes fluttering shut as it was becoming too difficult to keep them open. Too often I found myself questioning if someone still cared for me, if my parents still loved me or if I had become nothing more than a burden that they were thrilled to finally be rid of, and I knew I could never make my baby feel like that. My little bean would always feel loved; he would never question whether or not I cared.  
  
        No child should have to question that, and I would ensure that mine never would. So long as we shared blood, so long as he was fifty percent of my DNA, he would always be loved. No matter what.


	29. Apple Blossom Time

My finger lightly traced over the strip of photos from Halloween. Each pose made my heart clench, both pleasantly and painfully, simultaneously filling me with happiness and drowning me in dejection. That night had meant so much to me. It had been the true beginning of something wonderful I hadn't been prepared to experience, but I welcomed all the same.  
  
_"Tate, what are we?"  
  
        "What, uh -- what do you mean, exactly?"  
  
        "What are we -- if we're anything at all, what are we? Like . . . what am I, to you?"_  
  
        A minuscule smile tugged at the corners of my lips even as briny moisture collected in my eyes. Halloween had been the one night that had officially sparked the majority of the good and bad in my life. Tate and I had established a true relationship between us that hadn't formally been present before then. We had never specifically stated what we were, but I never felt as though it was necessary to do so; what good was it if we had to put a label on it? However, that had been the night where everything really started to circle down the drain.  
  
        In a strange way, I was grateful that those teenagers, that group of murdered Westfield High students, had interrupted us on the beach that night. If they hadn't I might not have found out about Tate. While the news had been distressing, and it still was to a certain degree, it made me realize that I loved him. Never once did I think less of him for murdering fifteen people. That was when I knew I had fallen for him. I still wasn't sure if it had happened slowly or all at once, but I had, and as wrong and disturbing as it was, I did love him.  
  
        Somehow that made our little bean all the more precious in my eyes. He was conceived out of wedlock, and he was the unexpected result of a stupid decision on my part, but teenage accident or not, he was _not_ a mistake. He was the product of a love much too young to realize the consequences of its uninhibited actions. But it was love all the same.  
  
        My teeth pressed down on my bottom lip as I thought about how Tate was coping with my absence. Like Constance had told me that night, when she'd blamed her daughter's untimely death on me out of grief, he was a sensitive boy with too deep feelings and the heart of a poet. And I had seen firsthand how unstable he could be. I could only hope he wasn't too upset with me not being at the house with him.  
  
        Honestly I was more worried about how he was coping with the pregnancy. I hadn't gotten around to telling him before Violet lashed out like the 'pissy teenager' she was. Obviously he knew now. Hopefully he wasn't terribly upset about that either. He might actually be excited about the baby, or he might be furious and hate me for it. If that were the case, then I would just have to learn to accept and live with it, so long as he didn't hate our baby as well. It wasn't his fault he had more motivation than the others.  
  
        My wallowing thoughts were disrupted by a quick succession of knocks at my door. Eyeing the door warily, I set the photo strip aside and hefted my swollen body from the armchair, trudging over to the door. Only one person had bothered me when I was inside since I'd checked in, and needless to say, I wasn't going to be happy should Ms. Evers be waiting on other side with a cart of food. When she'd showed up this morning with another breakfast I'd had half a mind to chew her out, but I had refrained from doing so, realizing that she was only acting on specific orders from the infuriatingly persistent owner. It wouldn't do any good to have a go at the staff when they were only doing as they were told. Then again, it didn't do any good to confront James either, so I was stuck leaving perfectly good meals out in the hall to waste. By this point it was the mere principle of the matter.  
  
        Pulling the door open, I was mildly surprised to find two women standing before me, Liz and Elizabeth, and not the one as I'd expected. Both women looked moderately annoyed, but whereas Liz conveyed an underlying acceptance, Elizabeth had adopted a graceful indifference that only managed to add to her mysterious allure. I tugged self-consciously at my robe, which I had changed into shortly after returning from work, leaving me in nothing else but my undergarments. It perplexed me how Elizabeth held the power to ruthlessly demolish any speck of self-esteem I'd managed to reconstruct the second she entered my vicinity without any effort on her part.  
  
        She was easily the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, and I wondered why I even bothered trying to make myself look presentable, as there was honestly no point in attempting when she merely existed.  
  
        "Oh, hey," I stammered, caught off guard by their appearance, as well as feeling somewhat embarrassed by my lack of clothing, despite being completely covered by the pink terry cloth, "I wasn't, uh, expecting anyone."  
  
        Well, I supposed that wasn't completely true as I had been expecting Ms. Evers,  but I'd also planned on turning her away. The door would have been shut in her face. As rude as it would have been, and as bad as I would have felt, I was running out of ways to get my point across. The act wouldn't be fair to the laundress, as she was only doing what she was paid to do, but nothing seemed to be working. Either I somehow hadn't made my stance on the matter clear, or he was deliberately being an ass and persisting just to spite me, for whatever convoluted reason he may have had.  
  
        A wry smile graced Liz's face, perfectly relaying the annoyance present in her expression. "Yeah, I figured as much, so just consider this surprise visit as courtesy of _His Highness_ upstairs," she conveyed dryly.  
  
        My brow creased in question, both confusion and curiosity, but even as I wondered about it, I had a pretty good idea of who she meant. There was only one man I'd met since checking in that came to mind when Liz's sarcastic ' _His Highness_ ' reached me. I bit my tongue.  
  
        Elizabeth's red-glossed lips twitched up at the corners. "Liz, please," she chided gently, though no real scolding was apparent behind her words. Instead she sounded amused.  
  
        Her light eyes sharp with her apparent displeasure, Liz turned her head towards the blonde beauty. "Well your husband's an ass," she snapped.  
  
        " _Ex_ -husband," Elizabeth corrected, "And yes, he is, a rather insufferable one at that. Which brings me to why we're here, Abigail." Her attention returned to me briefly as she gently shouldered her way past my door, forcing herself into my room. Liz followed suit while I merely blinked, trying to process everything from what was just revealed to what was happening now, and slowly shut the door behind us. "You have a dinner with James tonight, do you not?"  
  
        For a second her words didn't register with me. My mind was too busy grasping at the fact that James was Elizabeth's husband. Well,  _ex_ -husband, as she had amended, and clearly she and Donovan were a couple. But in a way I could imagine Elizabeth and James together. Both of them just had this certain way of holding and presenting themselves. Like they presided in the highest hierarchy of society and were accustomed to their every whim being catered to. Though Elizabeth's hubris was certainly more subdued than her ex-husband's, which made for a good distinction between the pair: her company was bearable while his was not.  
  
        After sorting through those thoughts, I was reminded of her question, whether or not I had planned on having dinner with him tonight. The inquiry provoked a spark of irritation to ignite as I recalled last night's encounter. That was why I did not find him tolerable. He was arrogant and infuriating, and as Liz had aptly described, he was an ass. The dinner invitation was the worst part. If only he had simply invited me to dine with him instead of telling me I had no choice in the matter. Of course I still would have declined, seeing as how not only was he a stranger who looked to be twice my age, but I was also still a minor and had Tate, but it wouldn't have killed him to extend a normal invitation and accept my declination like a normal person.  
  
        My eyes fell on the clutter I left on the table. Feeling the need to pick it up, to hide the truth behind my staying there, I scurried across the room, making sure to respond on the way. "No, I don't," I contended tersely. I snatched up the photo strip and gathered my earlier snack, once again of pickles and jam, before padding towards the bed. Everything was set down on the nightstand by my charging phone.  
  
        Elizabeth had released a quiet hum at my protest. It was just a little noise in her throat indicating that maybe she knew or understood something that I was probably unaware of. Liz, on the other hand, was much more forthright in her reaction. She was not too happy to hear that I did not have dinner with the owner of the hotel tonight. Her indignant scoff confused me slightly until she went on to voice her disgruntlement.  
  
        "That jerk had me drop everything to come up here." She pursed her lips and glanced to Elizabeth. "Has he always been such a jackass, or is this a recent development?"  
  
        "For as long as I've known him, he's always been insufferable," Elizabeth responded, a fond tone creeping into her unnecessarily sultry voice, a smile to match gracing her full lips, "Though I do remember him reaching this extent only once. It's been ages since." She leveled with me a kind look. "Abigail, darling, I do understand your reluctance to accept Jimmy's dinner invitation, but I suggest that you at the very least give just a moment to reconsider attending tonight."  
  
        The abnormality of the situation was not lost on me. Everything about this situation, and my situation in general, was atypical. The fact that James had apparently rescheduled for tonight and had Liz come up to escort me was irksome at best. But I found I was most taken aback by Elizabeth's suggestion for me to go ahead and have dinner with her ex-husband. I assumed that most women would automatically detest the female of their former partner's attention. Even if said female didn't want said attention. But here she was, suggesting I give it a chance, when that was the last thing I wished to do.  
  
        Above all of that, however, I was more irritated than anything. Not exactly with Elizabeth, or Liz, but more with James March himself. He had proven to be nothing short of a nuisance with a relentless persistence that would have left me impressed had it not been utilized to throw me into a perpetual state of exasperation. His fascination with me was, at the very least, disturbing. I was only seventeen. Not that he was aware, no one in this hotel was aware of my age as I would not have been able to get a room without parental permission, but surely I appeared young enough to warn him off in the opposite direction.  
  
        But, of course, that would only be the case should things go my way; and if things went my way, I wouldn't even be there right now. I would be home in Boston, enjoying movie nights with my family and watching Joel grow up surrounded by loving parents and siblings, all the while preparing to head off to college the following August. Obviously, that wasn't the case.  
  
        I shook my head. "No disrespect to you, Elizabeth, but when I said I wasn't going, I meant it," I said. My arms folded loosely over my chest as I wandered over to where the two women stood.  
  
        Liz pointed a finger at me. "This is why I like you, Abbie. You do not let some asshole push you around and walk all over you. The ' _master_ ' can just get off his damn high horse and stifle himself because you are  _so_  not his bitch." I felt my vexation moving aside to make room for some amusement as a small smile touched my dry lips. As silly as it was, her vague encouragement and praise made me feel better, and I felt myself inflate slightly with a swell of confidence.  
  
        "You are such a spirited young woman, Abigail, and I admire your tenacity," Elizabeth commended, extending her hand and placing her palm against my cheek, briefly brushing back some of my hair. "Unfortunately my ex-husband does as well. James is not one to let go of what he's deemed as belonging to him. Just be thankful he has yet to stake a physical claim on you." Her expression softened when I drew my eyebrows together in discontent. "I will make certain that nothing of the sort is inflicted upon you or your baby. But fighting him on this triviality is futile at best, darling, so I do encourage you to attend the dinner tonight. He will only grow more insistent on the matter if you don't."  
  
        My first instinct was to decline the suggestion once more. It was what I wanted to do, what I  _needed_  to do -- and it was what I should have done. But I didn't. Instead of pulling away from her, I remained standing there as though her delicate touch was keeping me anchored in place, and instead of refusing, I found myself nodding my head complacently. My inner voice began berating me almost viciously. I did my best to ignore it, even though even I was questioning what had made me comply. She was curiously persuasive without saying much.  
  
        When Elizabeth had me direct her to my clothing, I was ashamed to pull out my duffel bag, as I had not yet bothered to make use of the dresser provided. Neither women commented on it, but they didn't need to; it was pretty pathetic. The embarrassment of my current situation weighed down upon me as I watched Elizabeth sort through the folded articles for something for me to wear tonight. I wasn't even sure what all Constance had packed for me, or what would fit me now, considering how much my stomach had expanded, which was why I hadn't even thought to question Elizabeth when she had referred to my baby. My condition was becoming more apparent and more difficult to conceal. It was probably time for me to consider looking into some maternity wear.  
  
        Having nothing to do while my bag was being emptied and my attire options judged, I sat up by the head of the bed, refraining from indulging in my craving to avoid further judgement and instead grabbed the photo strip, once again allowing myself to admire Tate's deceptive allure. Even with the face paint he looked remarkably angelic, and even though I was well aware he was anything but, I did consider him my saving grace. Aside from the obvious, I knew I wouldn't have been where I was today if it hadn't been for him, and despite everything that had happened, I couldn't have been happier to have him in my life; and I couldn't have been more excited to share with him a whole other life, the little angel we had been blessed with -- our little bean.  
  
        Guilt suddenly rose up within me. This dinner with James, was it considered cheating? In my eyes it was not a date, it was more of mock hostage situation, but did _he_  consider it something more romantic? I didn't want to go through with it if it would taint my relationship. The mere idea of adultery repulsed me. I had been lucky enough to experience the damage it inflicted, and I did not want to bring that into my love life, I couldn't hurt Tate like that.  
  
        Liz and Elizabeth had struck up a conversation and included me in it with harmless small talk of pregnancy, about how far along I was and my symptoms, but it was interrupted when Elizabeth pulled out a black and white dress with a flourish. "This will have to do. Abigail, darling, go put this on. The material should stretch to accommodate your growth," she spoke. She extended the dress towards me.  
  
        Slowly I accepted it. My inner thoughts had been thrown into turmoil, but I muted them with the consideration that this was _not_ a date, it was a way to be left in peace. There should be no harm in it if I made that clear to James and left no room for him to think of this as any sort of romantic gesture. I would have dinner with him tonight, per Elizabeth's suggestion, and then I would hopefully not be bothered about it again.  
  
        It turned out to be the dress I had worn to my first ultrasound. I was relieved that Constance had packed it, and that Elizabeth had chosen it, because I knew it was probably the one dress I had that would still fit me. After I wrestled into it, I turned to the mirror, studying how it contoured to my body. The faux wrap, cascading down to my knees in a black skater skirt, didn't call too much attention to my abdomen, but the thin black stripes going across the white sleeveless top almost made my chest appear wider. But that could have just been the swelling straining against the fabric.  
  
        Surprisingly it wasn't the life protruding from my middle that made me feel the most self-conscious, but rather the hair covering my legs; it wasn't terrible, but it was starting to become visible, and I knew I wouldn't feel comfortable just flashing it. I planned on feeling as comfortable as I could given the circumstances, so I opened the door a crack and stuck my head out, asking if there had been a pair of leggings in the bag. When they were in my hand I retreated back inside and pulled them on. The black and white damask print didn't clash with the stripes on my dress, and the tapered hemline hugged my stomach tightly, but the soft knit made them comfortable.  
  
        Sally had joined the congregation when I stepped out of the bathroom. She had made herself comfortable in an armchair, one fishnet-clad leg crossed over the other, a lit cigarette dangling precariously between her slender fingers. Her damp eyes turned to me, and a dispirited smirk slanted her dark lips, the corners tilting up dismally.  
  
        "I told you, you don't have a choice," she reminded me, flicking her ashes in the round tray beside her. "You're his, babe, and he's not gonna let you go."  
  
        Liz and Elizabeth swiftly intervened and finished preparing me for my evening. It wasn't long before they had me standing at the mirror to appraise their work through my reflection. My makeup had been touched up a bit, but it remained light with a natural appearance, and my hair had been fussed with, but ultimately hung as limply as before. A pair of black suede ankle boots, complete with a block heel and softly rounded toes, had been fitted to my swollen feet over a pair of thin socks. My frame was almost dwarfed in an open front cardigan, spun softly in an enlarged black, white, and grey graphic pattern; the straight silhouette fell elegantly over my hips and was left open to the front, exposing my middle, which Liz assured me was not visibly outlined by the attire.  
  
        While I hadn't been looking for that reassurance, it was nice to hear, even though I was partially convinced she was just being nice and my bump was not as subdued as it seemed to my own eyes. Others always had a different perception, after all, so as far as I knew, I was fooling myself and was visibly well on my way to resembling a small house. But at this point I couldn't muster up enough energy to care. I was pregnant, my stomach was expanding, and while it was doing so at an alarming pace, it would continue to do so for about another six months.  
  
        Still, accepting that didn't make me feel any better about my tumefying frame, and it certainly didn't prevent my hands from messing with the distended area on the elevator as it carried me up to the seventh floor. I had almost been hoping that someone would have accompanied me at least during the one-floor trip, but instead I had just been given directions -- in other words, a room number -- and some last minute advice before being herded into the elevator and sent on my way.  
  
        The elevator came to a stop. I took a deep breath as the doors opened, attempting to quell my nerves and clear my head, and it was as though I was plunged into a horror movie. My eyes blinked at the corridor stretched before me. It appeared to be shrouded in darkness, as the lighting was much dimmer and scintillating than the other areas of the hotel I had seen, and stretch on for much longer than it physically could have. As though I hadn't been uneasy enough about the situation.  
  
        Warily I made my way forward. I glanced at each door in passing, observing the brass numbers steadily climb, until I had reached the furthest point down the hall. A sigh puffed out my cheeks. Of course his room would be the last one on the floor, of course it would be at the very end of the hall. Why not? It just furthered the horror scenario to which the eerie setting gave justice. Vaguely I wondered if I would be leaving the room at the end of the night or if a heinous fate awaited me just past the threshold.  
  
        Rolling my eyes, I balled my hand into a fist and raised it to the door, delivering three knocks to the wood in quick succession.  _Nothing is going to happen to you_ , I scolded myself.  _Just stop being a baby and get this over with_. My lips pursed slightly.  _And if something_ does _happen, you have at least three people who know where you are_. It wasn't incredibly convincing, but it did help to calm my nerves just a little.  
  
        The door suddenly swung on its well-oiled hinges to reveal the very face I'd been expecting to see earlier. A joyous grin was immediately directed at me. "Oh, Miss Harmon, how wonderful of you to accept the master's invitation. And I must say, that attire is very becoming on you," Ms. Evers greeted, eliciting a fabricated smile and brief expression of gratitude from me. "Please, do come in. Mr. March will be so very pleased that you've decided to grace him with your presence this evening." She pulled the door open wider and gestured for me to go in. Lightly biting my lips to avoid making a potentially offensive remark, I let my feet carry me across the threshold, noting that the uneasy feeling I'd had out in the hall refused to dissipate and instead seemed to thicken, swirling around me like a dark cloud.  
  
        After closing the door behind me, the click of the tumbler in no way reassuring, the laundress led me through the room. Though it appeared to be more of a suite than a hotel room. I supposed that made sense considering he  _was_  the owner, but still, I found myself slightly taken aback. It was significantly bigger with three rooms, excluding the bathroom, instead of the two that mine had -- a bedroom, just past an archway with a double bed, the door to the bathroom close by; a living area, the main portion of the room, complete with a coffee table and matching couch and armchairs; and then there was a dining area, featuring a long, dark wood table with coordinating chairs.  
  
        An antique gramophone set up in the living area, atop of what appeared to be a liquor cabinet, played gentle music that floated softly around the space. The table had been set up for what would appear to be a romantic night. Candles had been lit to compensate for the dimmed luminescence of the room, and two places opposite each other had been set. My eyes took note of the orange flowers placed delicately in the middle. Begonias.  
  
        Instantly my discontent flourished. The setting was too romantic for my comfort. While it was very beautiful, and it would have been nice had it been a different situation with a different person, it brought on another round of guilt for me. I had to be sure to assert as soon as possible that this was nothing more than a platonic, coerced interaction.  
  
        Not seeing James anywhere, I called to Ms. Evers, capturing her attention just as she was leaving to attend to her duties. She turned back to face me. "Yes, dear?"  
  
        "This dinner, all of this . . ." I waved my hand towards the dining area, trying to formulate a coherent sentence so I could hopefully get an answer. "This isn't -- you wouldn't -- he doesn't -- is this supposed to be a date?"  
  
        My inner voice rolled its eyes.  _Way to be assertive, dumbass. You were barely even coherent_. A frown sprouted on my face at my displayed anxiety. Ms. Evers just smiled gently at the question. "I have known Mr. March for years, Miss Harmon, but even I cannot tell you what goes on in that head of his. I am afraid that is a question you must ask of him yourself when he joins you momentarily," she apologized. She bustled out of the room when I nodded my understanding.  
  
        Now left to my own devices, I wandered about the living area, absently studying my surroundings. His room was neatly kept. Nothing appeared to be out of place, and there wasn't so much as a speck of dust to be seen, not even on the old phonograph. Either he'd had Ms. Evers dust thoroughly or he just used it frequently. Somehow I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be the latter. He seemed like the type of individual to listen to older music, like what was currently playing through the brass horn. It crackled with each rivet the spindle touched as the record rotated on the turntable. I wasn't sure who it was, or what period it was from, but it was definitely much older than I was used to listening to, and I found that I actually rather liked it. The dulcet notes had an almost soothing effect on my frazzled nerves despite the words only convincing me further that this was intended to be a romantic evening.  


_What a wonderful wedding there will be,_  
_What a wonderful day for you and me!_  
_Church bells will chime_  
_You will be mine_  
_In apple blossom time._

  
        I must have been so caught up in the lyrics that everything else had faded into the background. Without warning, a voice rang through the air, carried in a familiar accent. Startled by the sudden vocalization, I turned on my heel, feeling my heart pound underneath my fingers as they fell from my necklace. James stood a few feet behind me, dressed immaculately in a pinstripe suit, his hair combed and parted neatly to the right. He seemed to not have noticed my reaction to his abrupt appearance as his eyes were locked on the gramophone. The dark irises were soft with a certain emotion I couldn't place, and the corners of his mouth were tilted up ever so slightly.  
  
        "Speaks to the heart, does it not?" he questioned idly. "I have always harbored a fondness for this particular song. Such beauty captured in so few words." His eyes then flicked to me, and his smile grew bolder. "But I must admit, no beauty dares to rival that of yours, my dear."  
  
        Instinctively I took a step back when he took one forward. But I could only go so far without hitting the edge of the liquor cabinet. The move wasn't to protect myself. While I felt uncomfortable, I didn't necessarily feel threatened. I didn't feel as though I were in danger. At least not at the moment. I was intimidated, but not by him, just by the situation. The move was to get his attention so I could speak to him about it before I lost the words -- or the nerve.  
  
        "Is this a date?" I blurted.  
  
        Well, I never claimed it would be subtle, or even tactful. In fact I thought being straight-forward and blunt about it would be the best approach. Nothing seemed to get through to this man. Especially not when it concerned my boundaries. Subtlety was more of an enemy than a friend when it came to James March. Though assertiveness didn't seem to do me much good, either, but this was one stance on which I refused to budge. The line had to be drawn somewhere.  
  
        James, as always, was unaffected by my brevity. "Darling, as much as I would delight in courting you, this evening is nothing more than an opportunity for us to become better acquainted." He extended a hand towards me, which I eyed warily, my unease having barely been lifted by his assurance. "Come now, let us sit," he requested.  
  
        My eyes flicked from his hand to the dining area. For an evening with apparently no romantic intention, the ambiance was intense, not to mention rather contradictory to his words. So I moved my gaze back to his expectant face. "It all just looks so . .  . fancy," I commented. I meant it to sound casual, but it conveyed my suspicions perfectly, making me wince inwardly. The last thing I wanted to do was offend him when I was his -- coerced -- guest.  
  
        But he didn't seem offended by it. His grin only broadened as though my comment had been a compliment. "Only the best for special occasions, and I do find that forging a potential alliance qualifies as such. Wouldn't you agree, Miss Harmon?"  
  
        "Well, I, uh . . ." Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, though my inner self was doing a pretty decent job at that itself, I cleared my throat. I fabricated a small smile and reluctantly placed my hand in his proffered one. A dull ache was already beginning to throb in my feet from standing in those boots; I just wanted to sit and take some pressure off of them. "Yes, Mr. March, I suppose so."  
  
        "I'd say we have passed the point of such formality, my dear." His fingers lightly yet firmly wrapped around mine, and he guided me towards the dining area. "If we are to become better acquainted with one another, I must insist that you call me James."  
  
        My instant reaction was to frown. While it would be more relaxed to refer to him as such, I couldn't help but be a little annoyed at his hypocrisy. He wanted me to refer to him by his given name when he had yet to call me by mine. That was just a bit ridiculous, if you asked me. Arrogant, even. But from what I'd seen from him, the few irritating times we had interacted, I couldn't say I was too surprised.  
  
        Contrary to that observation, James pulled out my chair for me, waiting to seat me like a gentleman. I was taken aback at the gallant gesture. Perhaps chivalry wasn't completely dead just yet. Blinking away my faint stupefaction, I gratefully lowered myself into the chair, feeling him help push it in. "If you feel that way, maybe you should also extend that courtesy to me."  
  
        He took his own seat across from me. The vase of begonias nearly obstructed my view of him, but thankfully he had the height to be seen over them, and therefore I assumed he could see me easily as well. "Of course, darling. Whatever you wish," he placated. He took the golden bell situated conveniently at his hand and shook it a few times before setting it back down on the table.  
  
        "No." James lifted a brow in question to my protestation. "That's what I'm talking about, all these little terms of endearment you use; 'darling, my dear, my  _fiery little bearcat_ ' -- what does that even mean?" Sitting straight in my chair, I sighed and slumped slightly, my hands falling to my lap after gesturing animatedly to further my point. "Just, call me by my name -- and not my surname, my  _first_  name --  _please_."  
  
        There was a pause, then James cleared his throat and nodded, a penitent expression coming across his face. "Ah, yes. You must forgive my discourteous behavior." He reached across the table and covered my hand lightly with his own. I resisted the urge to pull away. "Any offense that has come to you, was never my intention. But if your convictions are so strong regarding this matter, I shall refrain from referring to you as anything but your given name. Abigail," he added, almost an afterthought, though with much more conviction. I accepted it.  
  
        His mouth twitched up at the corners, and I let mine do the same, nodding my head in response as I slid my hand out from underneath his. "Thank you, James."  
  
        Suddenly the door to his room was opened, and I was almost immediately stricken with the familiar roiling of nausea, a variety of scents swarming my senses at once. In bustled Ms. Evers with a cart pushed in front of her. My eyes briefly swept over the contents to determine the cause, but I couldn't tell what the dish was, not until Ms. Evers put a name to it as she was setting our respective plates in front of us: roast duck with blackberry-orange sauce and a medley of roasted root vegetables. Then there was a typical pitcher of water and a half-empty bottle of some type of liquor.  
  
        After pouring our respective drinks and announcing that she had taken the liberty of preparing some chocolate puffs with mascarpone cream for dessert, she was dismissed by James, who was determined to make small talk as he cut into the poultry. I tried to focus on what he was saying, but my stomach continued to churn, stealing my attention as I fought the increasing urge to dispel its contents. The brief sips of water I took between the reluctant nibbles of vegetable didn't feel as though they were helping to quell the unpleasant sensation like I was hoping.  
  
        The feeling was manageable, but it was intensifying, almost to the point where I was convinced I could feel the acid creeping up my throat. But it wasn't until I decided to taste the duck that it hit me with any considerable force. James continued talking to me about something -- his words had become harder to focus on as I battled with the threatening regurgitation -- as he'd been satisfied with the few noncommittal responses he'd gotten from me at the appropriate times. I figured that perhaps he genuinely loved hearing his own voice.  
  
        I cut off a piece of the glazed poultry and lifted it to my mouth. The instant it touched my tongue, the acid in my stomach churned so violently that it was propelled up my throat, and there was no hope of staving it off. A gag wretched from me, my tongue pushing the meat out until it fell back to my plate, and I clapped a hand over my mouth. My eyes slammed shut at the repulsive sensation as I abruptly shoved my chair away from the table and jumped up.  
  
        James was at my side before I could make a move towards his bathroom. His hand wrapped firmly around my upper arm as he worried over my current condition. My urgency played a part in muffling his words, so I couldn't focus on exactly what it was he was saying, but through the reflexive tears that pricked at my eyes I could see the consternation displayed clearly on his face. The grip he had on my arm was just firm enough to where I couldn't slip free, and I was afraid to remove my hand to tell him to let me go, afraid that opening my mouth to speak would just break the flood gates.  
  
        Once again I tried wrenching my arm from his grip, but his fingers merely tightened, and his other hand grabbed my wrist, coaxing my hand from my mouth. My watery eyes pleaded with him as I pressed my lips together. I shook my head when he insisted I tell him ' _what was eating me.'_ His frustration with me was visibly overtaking the concern I initially saw. The annoying tears that appeared whenever I got sick continued to sting. The bile continued to rise up my throat, and I did my best to swallow it back, silently pleading with him to let me go as I struggled against his hold, but finally I had lost the battle; it was coming, and there was no hope of me holding it back anymore.  
  
        He relinquished his grip on me the very instant my lips parted. My hand immediately flew back up to cover my mouth despite the damage having already been done. I kept my eyes closed as the impact of what I'd just done truly hit me, the pure mortification burning up my neck and all over my face, much more potent than the rawness of my throat inflicted by the acidity. James was silent for a moment, but I refused to open my eyes to look at him or the mess I'd just created; I was much too embarrassed to even flee the situation, let alone face it head on.  
  
        "Di mi!" he gasped, sounding utterly repulsed by me, not that I could particularly blame him. He then huffed in clear agitation. "I am well aware of the weak constitution of the fairer sex, Miss Harmon, but you are just being over dramatic." Suddenly his hand was once again wrapped around my arm, significantly harsher than before, and my dampened eyes flew open in shock at the dull ache it elicited. His face had blanched, the concerned look from before having been replaced with a mixture of disgust and anger. With his other hand, he gestured curtly to the front of his suit, which had been stained and quite possibly ruined. "This was completely unnecessary."  
  
        James' beratement was enough for those tears, all of which I had somehow been holding at bay despite the utter mortification that had draped over me, to fall from their confines. They leaked down my heated face in rivulets of shame. I choked out an apology, which probably wasn't too coherent with my hand still over my mouth and the humiliation thickening my voice, and wrenched my arm from his grip. All I wanted was to run away and never look back, never have to face him or my blunder again. Just pretend that it never happened and move on with my pathetic life.  
  
        But in order to do that, I had to extract myself from the situation, so I started towards the door as swiftly as I could. Unfortunately the awkward combination of increasingly pregnant and heeled boots made it so my 'swift' was really nothing more than a moderately paced waddle. It made it unfairly easy for him to gain on the small distance put between us and catch my shoulder. My gaze dropped to the ground as turned me around to avoid looking at him again.  
  
        His voice was considerably softer than it had been before, at least less agitated and more understanding, when he spoke. "Come now, darling. Tears have no place on such an angelic face." I flinched faintly in surprise when he brought his hand up, but he only reached into the front pocket of his jacket and pulled out the handkerchief that had been peeking out, pressing it into my other hand. "My apologies for my ungentlemanly behavior." Sniffling, and still not looking at him, I took the cloth, hesitantly using it to wipe at the trails down my cheeks. "Fret not, my dear, the fault was my own. No blame can be placed upon you for such an unfortunate situation," he assured me.  
  
        The tears continued to fall despite my attempts to quell them, not only soaking the cloth he had handed me, but making it useless as there was no point in wiping them away if more would come to replace them immediately they were gone. So I just lowered and held it in my hands, my fingers playing with the linen material, running over the three letters embroidered elegantly in the corner.  _'JPM'_ \-- it must have been his initials. It was odd for someone to have a personally embroidered handkerchief today, let alone a plain handkerchief at all, but I didn't find it at all surprising given his proper demeanor.  
  
        That made me feel even worse. There he was, once as prim and meticulous as he'd always appeared, and then there was me, a sniveling mess who had ruined both his -- probably -- expensive suit, handkerchief, and the lovely meal that Ms. Evers had prepared.  
  
        I felt like such a cretin.  
  
        Ashamed, I shook my head, a ghastly hiccup bumping its way out of me, a nasty result of me attempting to take deep breaths to calm myself. Unfortunately, hearing how odious the sound was when mixed in with everything else only exacerbated my already excessive emotional state, and the small amount of progress I'd made was reset as I began crying harder. I couldn't even tell what I was crying about anymore; were they tears of discomfiture at the situation or repulsion of myself? My hormones were probably just all out of whack. That combined with my chagrin created the perfect storm for tears.  
  
        Through the sniffling, I managed to choke out another apology, though he would have none of it. He merely clicked his tongue in disapproval and steered me towards the sitting area. "None of that, darling. You needn't apologize for a thing." Firmly, yet much more gently than he'd been earlier, he lowered me down into one of the chairs by the phonograph, which was still playing softly. "Now don't you worry your pretty little head, dearest. I'll send for Ms. Evers." Even through my distress, I couldn't help but feel belittled at the patronizing choice of words. I frowned up at him.  
  
        James excused himself before going back into the dining area. He rung the bell that still lay on the table and shed his soiled jacket. Underneath was a crisp white dress shirt and, oddly, a pair of suspenders. Again, it was something outdated and old-fashioned, yet it suited him. I noted the lack of wrinkles and creases in the dress shirt. Clearly his outward appearance was something he took great pride in and made an effort with. Then I had to come in and ruin _that_ for him for the evening.  
  
        _Nice going, loser. Y_ _ou're just an expert at fucking things up, aren't you? Can't even get through a simple meal without ruining everything._  
  
        When Ms. Evers responded to her summons, James instructed her on what she was to do, and I was briskly whisked away to the bathroom. She deftly stripped me of my cardigan when she noticed I had gotten a little on the front, which even I hadn't noticed, and took a wet cloth to my face. The rougher material scratched my skin lightly as it rubbed over my heated cheeks. Her actions made me feel much like a child unable to care for themselves. I protested that I could clean myself up, but she was adamant that  _'the master'_  would be displeased should she not 'adhere to his wishes,' and apparently her will was greater than mine.  
  
        "You mustn't allow this mishap to ruin your evening, Miss Harmon," she remarked once I relented and begrudgingly let her wash my face. "Mr. March was delighted when I informed him of your arrival. Please know he takes no offense to the hapless situation which ails you. I am certain he would take much pleasure in continuing this evening in your presence." She pulled the cloth away from my face and smiled gently. "Life is much too short for tears, dear. We mustn't waste what time we have wallowing in circumstances that exceed our control."  
  
        After I was deemed 'presentable' once again, she exited the bathroom with my cardigan, leaving me behind to gather myself. I spared my reflection a brief examination when passing the mirror, and the unsightly face peering back at me made me cringe, discouraging me to study it more thoroughly. All of my makeup had been wiped away, leaving my flushed skin bare with the remnants of my hormonal surge, and my eyes were hideously red and puffy from the briny moisture. I looked pitifully execrable.  
  
        The bathroom was, of course, attached to the bedroom. His area was set up nearly identical to mine. Which, I supposed, was to be expected. Earlier I hadn't bothered to give the space any thorough consideration, as that would just be intrusive and pointless, but on my way out, something caught my eye. A framed photograph sat delicately on the dresser. A moment's hesitation passed, where I debated on whether or not I should, but something was nagging at me, telling me that I needed to see what it was.  
  
        I was just drawn to it. So I picked up the frame and brought it closer for perusal.  
  
        It was old. Black and white, and through the glass, I could see slight yellowing at the edges, conveying its age. Captured in the image was a young couple. His dark hair had been slicked down and parted neatly to the right. An equally groomed mustache nestled thinly above his upper lip. His eyes were obscured, appearing to be black with the absence of color, and he had on a pinstriped suit with a dark rose in the lapel and an ascot covering his neck. Her lighter hair had been piled up in curls and held in place by what appeared to be an off-white ribbon, which looked to match the material of her dress, as well as the beaded shawl draped elegantly around her arms. The pearls of her necklace glinted just enough to capture their natural sheen. Her eyes, outlined in a dark shadow, were lighter than her partner's, but her lips were as dark as his ascot.  
  
        They were both sitting. She looked to be in a chair while he rested on the arm. In his hand was half a glass of what looked to be maybe red wine. Her head leaned lightly against his shoulder while her hand hooked around his forearm. The other lay delicately in her lap much as his had crossed over the wrists so the glass was held closer to her. Neither of them were smiling, but their eyes glinted and their faces lit up with a certain passion, so much so that it was obvious how happy they were. There was no doubt that they were beautiful together, a couple very much in love.  
  
        I studied the photograph for a second more before recognition abruptly came crashing down on me. I'd seen them before. After that dinner with Lana and Marion, when I'd fallen asleep in the bath, I'd had that dream. The couple, the man and woman, dancing together. This was them. They were even in the same clothing. My eyebrows furrowed, and I brought the frame closer, peering curiously at the couple. Who were they?  
  
        My eyes squinted slightly as details began popping out at me. His dark features and thin mustache. Her rounded face and bowed lips. I knew who they were. The man was James; how I hadn't seen that before was beyond me, but that explained that feeling of recognition when I'd first met him -- I  _had_  seen him before, in a dream. But why? How? Then the woman . . .  
  
        She was me.

* * *

**So... there's that. I've given a couple of hints towards this 'revelation' of sorts, but it will not all be unveiled yet. But I promise that eventually we will explore this little development in much more depth. Though I'm sure most of you have figured out what it means.**  
  
**Remember when Abbie had a semi-normal life? Seems like such a long time ago...**  
  
**God, it's been almost a month since I've updated, but I've been working at this for all that time. It's just that improvisation is certainly _not_  my strong suit, and unfortunately this is a point where it's nothing but. However, I have worked out a sort of timeline for these upcoming chapters, so hopefully they will be up in a more timely manner. And, for those of you tired of James' constant presence (...anyone?), I promise that Tate will be back in the picture very soon!**  
  
**Again, I must reiterate, as much as I adore James, he is not a romantic interest in this installation. Abbie only has eyes for Tate -- will it backfire on her, or are they destined? As always, I enjoy any sort of feedback or input, and I would love to hear any suggestions or thoughts!**  
  
**Credit to Weisse_Frauen \-- _again_  -- for saving my ass and helping me with everyone's dialogue. I don't know what I'd do without her! If you haven't already, I suggest checking out her two stories, Devil in Me and Your Dirty Love!**


	30. Familial Ties

It was hard to believe that there was a time where my life had been somewhat normal. Over the three months that we had lived in the infamous Murder House, I had reminisced about it many times, wishing I could return to that simplicity. But so much had happened that now it all seemed like a distant memory. Only if I thought hard enough could I recall having two doting parents who loved and cherished their children, having a sister who I could tell anything and who I was closer to than anybody, and having hopes of a promising future with a career and eventually a loving family of my own.  
  
        Any remnants of that normality had long since been shattered into oblivion. As depressing as it was, to have witnessed each individual shard crack until the slivers had fragmented irreparably, I had grown to accept it. Maybe I just wasn't meant to have that kind of life. Perhaps I wasn't destined to have that sort of happiness and fortune, and that fifteen years of it that I had taken for granted was just some cruel cosmic joke played on me by the universe, giving me just a taste of it before ripping it away and making me realize what could have been.  
  
        They say that you never know what you have until it's gone, and I guess that was true, because I never really did see how good I'd had it until suddenly I didn't. Now I was left grasping at the few remaining tenuous straws of my waning sanity as the aberration and absolute mania of my life continued to close in on me completely. My mind was overloaded with madness and absurdities that had become my seemingly nonviable reality.  
  
         _Seeing that photograph had immersed me into a state of complete perplexity and alarm. That girl with James was undeniably me. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing a darker image of myself reflected back in an older time period. The photograph looked as though it had been around for a while, and their attire was reminiscent of before modern day, perhaps the thirties or forties. However, I supposed they could have wanted such a theme, and the photo could have simply been doctored to appear as though it were really from such a time.  
  
        Ms. Evers had come to check on me, per James' request, and found me staring at the couple captured for eternity. She had grown visibly uneasy when I questioned her about the woman, which disturbed me as I had never seen her like that, but she had reluctantly answered my inquiries as to who she was. The young woman in the photo was Lucille Cortez. She and James had once been married, and the photograph he kept on his dresser had been taken on their wedding day, but unfortunately she had passed shortly after, and he had turned to his late wife's best friend for comfort, which eventually led to him getting remarried to her.  
  
        Perhaps this was why James was so adamant about my company. I reminded him of his wife.  
  
        While I was somewhat assuaged to have some indication of who this woman was, it still left a lot of my questions unanswered, and those were the ones that continued to swirl around inside my head with a dizzying velocity that made it difficult for me to fall asleep that night. Why did she look like me -- or, rather, why did _ I _look like_ her _? Why did I dream of them?_ How _did I dream of them, before I'd even seen them or knew who they were, before I'd even known they existed?  
  
        Those questions kept me up for a good hour after I had already settled into bed. I tossed and turned, desperately trying to maneuver into a position comfortable enough for them to rest and let me do the same, but it took forever for them to do so. Finally I think my exhaustion just got the better of me and I ended up passing out from the lack of decent sleep I'd been dealing with. Either way, I was grateful for the quiet and peace of mind that came once I did, but like all good things in my life, it wasn't fated to stay.  
  
        Images flickered before my eyes. Faint visions of blood and two bodies entwined, a quiet chorus of screams and moans rising from the shadows, scintillating like static. Until finally it stabilized to show a solid scene. A man and woman, James and Lucille, stood bare before me, a body lying lifeless at their feet. Viscous liquid was gradually seeping from the corpse and inching its way towards the couple. Clutched in her hand was a knife, the blade glistening and dripping, and her nude body was splattered with red.  
  
        "Well, I do believe this delightful opportunity marks my first time witnessing your dexterity," James remarked happily, "And I must say, dearest, you possess a finesse that dares to rival even my own." He reached out and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear, causing her to tilt her head to look at him. "You have never looked so ravishing as you do in this moment."  
  
        Lucille grinned coquettishly and dropped the knife as she turned towards him. Her arms went around his neck. "Darling, you do realize the repercussions of his demise, do you not?" she simpered.  
  
        James grinned and put his hands on her hips. "Oh, but I do, sweetheart." He leaned closer to her. "With his quietus, you are a widow once more, meaning you are no longer bound by the manacle on your pretty little finger. And I, my dear, am free to dote upon you as I please, as my forbidden bearcat is no longer prohibited." Tugging her closer, his hands moving to her lower back, he brought her in for a kiss.  
  
        "Your avidity is admirable, James," she giggled when she broke free, "But you forget that, as a widow, it would be inappropriate to allow you to court me so soon after my beloved husband's tragic passing." She moved her hands to cup his face as he groaned in protest. "Patience, my love, for it holds no merit whether or not the public is aware of us; I have always been yours, have I not?" She briefly pecked his lips. "My mother always used to say that the best things in life were worth any wait it required to gain them."  
  
        "Soon, my darling, the whole world will know of our endearment."  
  
        My eyes snapped open to reveal nothing more than a dark room. Lying on my side, I had a perfect view of the clock on the bedside table, whose glowing digits proved that barely two hours had gone by since I'd finally fallen asleep. A groan rumbled from me as I buried my face into the pillow in frustration. All I wanted to do was sleep. The blissfulness of unconsciousness was the only thing that could make me forget all the insanity in my life, if only for a few hours, and I yearned for that dark escape.  
  
        Making yet another attempt at getting comfortable, I pushed the disturbing dream to the back of my mind -- I didn't even want to begin exploring that insanity -- and rolled over onto my back, my arm thrown over my eyes. Just a couple of uninterrupted hours, that was all I was asking for -- was that so much to be granted after all the crap I'd been through?  
  
        Apparently so.  
  
        With a huff, I flung my arm to the side and opened my eyes, expecting to see the ceiling. Instead I was granted with the sight of some sort of monstrosity. Its skin had a waxy appearance, pale white and greasy, and it lacked any facial features. It loomed above me, its long fingers twisting and body hemorrhaging, with a conical drill-bit strapped on its pelvic region whirling precariously.  
  
        With a terrified shriek, I launched myself from the bed, automatically getting legs tangled in the covers and crashing to the floor. Instinctively my arms flew down to protect my stomach from the impact as my front collided with the stiff carpet. I hurriedly flipped myself over and scurried backwards, but there was nothing there. Nothing was above my bed. There were no waxy creatures with strap-on drill-bits looming over me. There was nothing.  
  
        Was I losing it?_  
  
        Even now, as I sat in the familiar common area waiting to be seen by Dr. Kirkland, I couldn't help but wonder if that had been real. If I had truly seen what my eyes had believed to capture. No one ever wanted to face the possibility of imagining things that weren't there, but I had to question my own credibility, unable to trust my own psyche at this rough juncture of my life. The mind could only handle so much, after all, and all the stress I'd endured had surely turned mine into a splintered mess of confusion and chaos.  
  
        Real or not, that monstrosity plagued me, and because of it, I hadn't gotten any sleep since. Two days without a moment's rest could take a toll on the body. How long could a person go without it until the deprivation shut the body down completely? Perhaps I would find out for myself. It wasn't healthy by any means, and I know it was bad for my little bean, but it wasn't as though I were  _trying_  to stay awake. There was nothing more I would rather do than just succumb to my exhaustion. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw  _that_ , and whether it was a physical being or just a figment of my imagination, I was terrified that it would return.  
  
        To keep myself alert while waiting for my name to be called, I kept drinking my water, despite feeling as though my bladder was about to explode, and remained engaged in a conversation with the two women who had accompanied me here. Constance had insisted upon driving me, and when she had come to pick me up, I had been surprised by my own mother exiting the car to usher me into a much needed embrace. A week had felt like a year without her there with me. I wasn't mad or hurt anymore about her not fighting to keep me in the house when Ben had kicked me out. I missed her too much to be upset about it. A girl needed her mother, and with everything going on, I needed my mom in my life more than ever.  
  
        As horrible as it was to say, she was looking haggard, much more worn down than she had when I left. She just looked so much older. The age lines in her face had become more prominent, and despite having that pregnancy glow, her skin had become sallower. Even her hair had seemed to had lost its luster and was looking as lank as mine. It was pitiful, and it was a hard sight for me to stomach, especially when Vivien Harmon had always been such a strong and vivacious woman.  
  
        I also couldn't help but take note of her size. Being older and having carried three children already, she'd always been a little thicker in the waist, and her abdomen didn't appear to have expanded much past that yet. Just enough to be noticeable to me. However, the observation drew comparisons to my own protruding stomach, and much to my dismay, I noted the discouraging fact that I appeared to be larger already than she was. My stomach had rounded out into a tight little drum of stretched skin that extended far beyond my original waist line while hers hadn't seemed to have budged an inch over her pants.  
  
        My bump was actually showing through my shirts now as well as preventing me from fitting into any of my bottoms. When dressing that morning, I had gone through all of the jeans in my bag and even the shorts, despite it being cooler and rainy now that December had come, but every pair had either been too tight for comfort or just refused to fasten. Luckily I'd been able to find a pair of grey lounge pants with an elasticized waistband. The light grey tank top I'd wrestled my torso into was almost uncomfortable, however, as my abdomen obnoxiously stretched the ribbed material, but I'd needed something underneath the maroon sweater as the lightweight knitted fabric was almost like gossamer. It had all been just one noisome ordeal that had dampened my already deplorable mood.  
  
        It was ridiculous to be so bitter about the difference in girth, especially when I was well aware that each woman carried differently and she had probably grown much more than my eyes were allowing me to realize through my acrimony, but I was. I could have very well resented her for it if I hadn't been so eager to finally have her at my side once more. Even now, while I surreptitiously eyed her wider figure with annoyance, I had my head resting on her shoulder, reveling in the warmth I felt surrounding my heart as her arm held me closer to her.  
  
        By the time the nurse escorted us back into an examination room, I felt about ready to burst, and I was afraid that I'd drunk so much water that my bladder would void itself of its own volition before Dr. Kirkland even arrived. My leg continuously bounced up and down as I answered the general wellness questions. The nurse meticulously recorded my responses in the chart before exiting with the kind assurance that the doctor would be in shortly. I bit back a groan and tried to breathe deeply as the pressure on my bladder intensified.  
  
        Apparently noticing my increasing discomfort, Constance leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on my knee, applying just enough to get it to stop jumping up and down. "Moving only makes it worse, dear. Just sit still, keep your legs together, and try not to think about it," she advised.  
  
        "If I could keep my legs together, I wouldn't be in this situation," I griped.  
  
        Still, I attempted to do as she said, pressing my thighs together and fighting to keep stationary. Sitting upright, as slouching only made it worse, I shut my eyes and tried to focus on anything else. My mind conjured up an image from my last appointment and the aftermath. Dr. Ralph Hamilton passing out at the sight of my ultrasound, the church, him insisting I carried the 'plague of nations' within my womb. What if something else was seen this time around? Something more horrible than what he had claimed?  
  
        The thought didn't make me feel any better, but it did manage to distract me from my alarmingly full bladder, so I supposed I couldn't win them all.  
  
        My eyes flew open when Dr. Kirkland finally made an appearance. She granted the three of us a warm smile and spared Mom and Constance some brief small talk before addressing me directly. "How are you feeling this morning, Abigail?" she inquired. Despite what had occurred the last time I was in her office, her tone carried no wariness of potential repeats, it was just as kind and inviting as I remembered it being.  
  
        "Tired," I responded truthfully. "I haven't been sleeping much lately."  
  
        I hadn't been sleeping  _at all_  lately, not for two days, but I didn't want to get into that. It would only worry Mom, and the last thing she needed was any additional stress, especially with how precarious this pregnancy was. Plus I still wasn't certain if any of that had been real or not. For all I knew, I could be developing insomnia over a hallucination, and if that were the case, I didn't want to advertise my failing grasp on reality. So I kept it vague with a half-truth.  
  
        Dr. Kirkland smiled reassuringly. "That's perfectly normal. A lot of expectant mothers experience insomnia during the first trimester. Though you should try to get as much rest as you can." She moved to the ultrasound monitor and prepared the equipment. "Okay, Abigail, I'm gonna need you to lie back on the table and lift your shirt for me, please," she directed.  
  
        Her observant gaze eyed my growth critically as I did as instructed. I didn't exactly feel judged under the scrutiny, but there was some discontent over how much I'd obviously gained, and I was hoping that this ultrasound would clear my worries about the rapid changes my body was experiencing. The gel was applied to the distended skin and spread around by the handheld Doppler. It was a tense moment as I watched her expression grown solemn with concern and confusion. She frowned and maneuvered the instrument until a series of thumps emitted from machine. It sounded like the galloping of horses, and I knew it was the heartbeat, but while it made me happy to hear, it was worrisome how fast it was compared to just a few weeks ago. The doctor's silence and troubled expression only doubled my consternation.  
  
        "What's the matter?" Constance demanded before I could voice my distress. "What's wrong with my grandbaby?"  
  
        My own heart jumped a little at the thought of something being wrong with my baby. In response, the thumps on the monitor thundered, quickening with my own. Mom immediately grabbed my hand and moved closer to me as Constance started to approach the monitor herself. I bit my lips anxiously and closed my eyes, waiting to hear the news, expecting to be informed of some malady that had claimed my baby.  
  
        "Nothing's wrong," Dr. Kirkland hesitated, her voice laced with bewildered honesty, encouraging me to look up at her once more. She glanced back at her charts briefly. "According to the records here, Abigail, you are ten weeks along. Is that correct?" Her brows drew together when I confirmed that, to my knowledge, that was how far along I was. "We were seeing some rapid development at your last appointment, but this baby looks to be at least fourteen weeks."  
  
        "What do you mean?" Mom questioned.  
  
        Dr. Kirkland glanced around at us, from my apparent anxiety to Mom's confusion, and then finally to Constance's stern demeanor, before sighing and turning the monitor in our direction. My eyes locked onto the black and white image revealed to me. No longer was I looking at a small blob. My little bean had grown into a discernible human, with a clear facial structure and limbs. It was so strange seeing a sonogram, a visualization of a tiny little person, and knowing that I was seeing someone who was literally half of me, someone I wouldn't even get to meet for several months.  
  
        "The fetus appears to be healthy, from what I can gather," she assured us, "But at ten weeks, he should only be a little over an inch in length; right now, from crown to bottom, he's about triple that, and his the heartbeats measures about 140 beats per minute. He has developed substantially in the last month. I've never seen anything like it." The doctor sighed again, pressing her lips together. "Like I said, he appears to be healthy, but I'm going to conduct a 3D and 4D ultrasound to see if I can determine any visible fetal anomalies that could have possibly factored into the acceleration."  
  
        She sounded uncertain, but I just nodded my head, not knowing what to say. How was I supposed to feel about that? Was I supposed to be upset? Worried? I didn't know. So I just remained silent, holding onto my mother's hand like it was my only lifeline, trying to keep myself as relaxed as I could by focusing on my mother's touch, her hand in mine and the way she stroked my hair. At the doctor's firm insistence, Constance reluctantly retreated back to my side, sidling up next to my mom.  
  
        While she was working, Dr. Kirkland explained to us how the ultrasounds worked, and the difference between them. Whereas a 2D ultrasound provides a black and white profile converted from sounds waves, a 3D ultrasound offered a three-dimensional view of the fetus by piecing together multiple two-dimensional angles, and a 4D ultrasound pieced together all the 3D renderings to portray movement in real time. 3D and 4D ultrasounds were performed exclusively for closely examining anomalies, like a cleft palate or issues with the spinal cord, or to monitor something specific.  
  
        Once everything was set up, she directed our attention to the screen mounted on the wall in front of the table, which was set up there specifically for these particular ultrasounds. Instead of the black and white image I had been expecting to see, it was an orange hue, and I could clearly make out all the different body parts without having to be told which was what. A sense of wonderment overtook me as the image moved. Despite the solemn reason for having it done, I couldn't help but feel this overwhelming happiness, my eyes dampening as I watched my little bean move around inside of me.  
  
        His legs were still in need of lengthening, but his arms appeared to be properly proportionate, and his hands had sprouted five little appendages. One of his hands had curled into a tiny fist and was fastened at his mouth while his other was held up and grasping idly. Dr. Kirkland pointed out various things as my baby continued to move. He was actually sucking his thumb, and his fingers already grown their nails, which she said was physically impossible for a fetus only ten weeks along.  
  
        "Look, Abbie," Mom said, probably trying to take my mind off of any worries I had concerning his health, as she pointed towards the screen, "He's waving at you."  
  
        A small huff of laughter escaped me as I watched his hand sway a bit, still grasping; it did look like he was waving. Maybe he was as excited to meet me as I was to meet him. As I continued to watch, he stopped sucking his thumb and began rubbing at his closed eyes, his mouth even opening a bit. We were informed that he was yawning; he was tired. Seeing such a normal action performed on such a miraculous being was astounding to me. It made it seem so real, much more so than it already was, and I found myself entranced by every minuscule gesture captured.  
  
        "He looks like you," Constance murmured fondly.  
  
        "There doesn't appear to be indication of any anomalies that I can detect," Dr. Kirkland concluded after another moment of us just admiring the motions on the screen. "I'll perform some blood tests to see if that comes up with anything I may be missing or may not be present on the exterior." Giving her my affirmative, I glanced up at her, seeing her gaze back with a tender look. A small smile touched her lips to replace the concentrated frown she'd been wearing. "Would you like to know the gender?"  
  
        The inquiry froze me for a moment. So many emotions were rushing through me at once. Relief at nothing visibly being wrong despite unnatural growth, worry that something would show in the blood work once the results were in, ebullience at physically seeing  my baby move, and anticipation and excitement at actually being a mom and potentially finding out the gender. But did I want to know the gender beforehand, or did I want it to be a surprise?  
  
        I considered it before deciding. "Please."  
  
        My heart leapt into my throat as my exuberance at the suspense spiked. The heartbeat on the monitor intensified once more to a thundering of galloping horses. On the screen my baby squirmed in response as though disturbed. He was reacting to my emotions. Swallowing nervously, I inhaled deeply, steeling myself for the reveal. Both Mom and Constance, both of my little bean's grandmothers, clutched onto me as they, too, anxiously awaited to hear whether they will have a grandson or a granddaughter to dote upon. Whether I would have a son or a daughter.  
  
        Dr. Kirkland maneuvered the transducer around a bit until it was positioned so the image on the screen showed a full frontal of my child. On the monitor she moved her mouse around the pelvic region, where a barely discernible -- to my eyes, anyway, but I wasn't the one with medical expertise -- protrusion sprouted. "Congratulations, Abigail -- it's a boy."  
  
        "A boy?"  
  
        We'd all been using the masculine pronouns as was proper for a neutral gender. But to know that he was  _actually_  a he was the best news I'd heard in ages. My little bean was actually my baby boy. My son.  
  
        _I was having a son._  
  
        After drawing my blood for the tests, Dr. Kirkland sent me home with a copy of the 2D ultrasound, promising she would reach me or Lana when my results were in. Instead of taking me back to the hotel, Constance made a detour and brought us to a small maternity boutique, claiming that such happy news warranted a gift on her. I'd protested, not totally comfortable with allowing her to buy maternity clothes for me, but she'd insisted, and with her being the driver, there wasn't really anything I could do to stop her.  
  
        With help, I found a few pairs of jeans and some cute tops that not only fit me currently, but would continue to fit for a while, as they were tailored to stretch with the expanding girth of pregnancy. I'd even managed to find a couple more pairs of flat shoes that seemed as though they would be comfortable to wear even as my feet swelled. Just as I was convinced we'd picked over the entire store, Constance thrust some nursing bras into my arms and turned me back into the dressing rooms, instructing me to try them on to determine my current size, then we could buy some just a bit bigger to accommodate my breasts as they enlarged with everything else.  
  
        My phone rang while I was wrestling out of my current one. Normally I would have waited for it to go to voicemail, as I didn't recognize the number and was currently a little busy, but something told me I should pick up, and here recently my intuition had been pretty decent. So I slid my finger across the screen and held the device between my shoulder and ear while reaching around to undo the clasp.  
  
        "Hello?"  
  
         _"Hello."_  It was a female's voice. She sounded fairly young, maybe somewhere in her mid- to late-twenties.  _"Is this Abigail Harmon?"_  
  
        I frowned slightly. "Possibly. What is this about?"  
  
         _"I'm sorry to bother you, Miss Harmon. My name's Cordelia Goode, I'm the headmistress of Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies, a finishing school here in New Orleans, and I have a student here by the name of Alexa Stark who is looking to get in touch with her family. Our research has led to your name."_  
  
        Now thoroughly confused, I paused in my movements, blinking as I tried to formulate a response. "Oh. Well, I'm sorry, but I don't know anyone by that name," I replied truthfully. The best course of action was to be honest. I'd never heard of the academy, let alone anyone named Alexa.  
  
        She cleared her throat. It didn't sound impatient, but more like she was preparing for something.  _"I understand, Miss Harmon, but please hear me out."_  Cordelia waited until I'd given my hesitant consent before continuing.  _"Miss Stark was orphaned at a young age with no known family to care for her. Now, we have managed to trace back through her mother's lineage. Her grandmother, Charlotte Darling, had a cousin, Mary Allison Walker, who has been listed as the mother of Vivien Harmon. Do any of those names sound familiar?"_  she asked.  
  
        Shock flooded my system. It took me a moment to process that the names she had listed were my grandmother and mother's. Grandma Mary had never really gone into her cousin's history. She'd only shared a few stories about her, one of them the reason behind my hatred of clowns. So I supposed it wasn't terribly surprising that I had family out there I hadn't heard about. But it was almost surreal to be reached out to by them.  
  
        "Uh . . . yeah. Yeah, that's my family."  
  
         _"Great, so I do have the right Abigail Harmon. I was wondering after not being able to get in contact with anyone else."_  Cordelia inhaled deeply, the sound crackling over the line.  _"Listen, I'm going to be honest with you, Miss Harmon. I have come to care for Alexa like my own, and I know it would mean the world to her if she could speak to you."_  
  
        My state of undress all but forgotten, I lowered myself onto the bench provided, agreeing to speak with Alexa. After all, she  _was_  my cousin, in a sense. At least she was family. According to the headmistress of that academy, Cordelia Goode, she hadn't known her family. It sounded as though she'd had no one after she had been orphaned. I was feeling sentimental after the gender reveal of my baby, so I didn't see the harm in forging some familial ties.  
  
         _"Hello?"_  
  
        The voice was quiet, almost timid, but not quite apprehensive. It was more cautious. I supposed that was understandable. I'd probably be wary if I was reaching out to someone after not having any family for so long. Though, I wasn't exactly sure how long it had been, or even how old she was. I didn't know a thing about this girl.  
  
        "Hi," I responded, feeling awkward already and not really knowing what to say. "I,uh . . . I'm Abigail. Abbie." Frowning, I cleared my throat. "Alexa, right?"  
  
         _"Yes."_  The line went silent. It stretched on for what seemed like ages, though it was only a few seconds, and I didn't exactly know how to break it. Thankfully I didn't have to.  _"Sorry. I just -- I don't know what I'm doing."_  She let out a nervous laugh with a little sigh at the end.  _"I -- Maybe I should just let you go . . ."_  
  
        "Wait." I don't know exactly what prompted me to keep her from disconnecting. But I know I didn't want her to go; I wanted to learn about her, I wanted to get to know her. "How, uh, old are you, Alexa?"  
  
        We didn't talk for long. The whole conversation was rather uncomfortable, to be honest, but we did chat for just a bit longer. She was sixteen, just a year younger than me, and had been at the finishing school since she was nine. Her mother had died when she was only three years old, and she had been in and out of the system until she was adopted by Myrtle Snow, a woman who had practically raised Cordelia, which was how she had gotten into the academy.  
  
        After a promise between us to keep in touch, we finally hung up, and I was left feeling pretty good. It wasn't every day that something like that happened. Especially not in my crazy life. I'd found out I was having a beautiful baby boy, and new familial ties were being forged, and I honestly was in a better place than I'd been in since we'd moved to Los Angeles.  
  
        I wondered when it would all come crashing down on me once more.

* * *

 **What? An update in only three days? Inconceivable!**  
  
**Sorry, I was watching _The Princess Bride_ , and I just couldn't  _not_  do it. But the gender of baby Langdon has finally been revealed! I mean, I'm sure you all figured it was a boy, but as they are stuck inside the chaos, they were unaware. Hopefully I portrayed the appointment fairly well. Pretty much all of my knowledge in this area comes from research or common sense, and I admit I don't know too much about the 3D and 4D ultrasounds, so hopefully I didn't sound too ignorant or get anything wrong there.**  
  
**But, let's talk for a second -- _Coven_  has now come into play, and the  _Freakshow_  reference has been revisited, much more clearly than the first. And then there is Lucille Cortez. Who knew James had a wife before Elizabeth, and who would have guessed Elizabeth also happened to be her best friend? Please tell me what your thoughts are on these issues, I'd love to hear any theories or what you guys think of all these different revelations, or even suggestions for what you think will happen along the way!** ****


	31. Sunken Dream

Whenever things went right in my life, when they came too easily and were conveyed much too happily, I couldn't help but be suspicious. There had to be a catch for everything. My life never just flowed without disturbance, not without any repercussions. So when I'd been left feeling good, having just found out my little bean was in fact my beautiful baby boy and connecting with a long-lost family member, naturally I questioned when it was going to come back to fuck me over and bite me in the ass.  
  
        It turned out that I only needed to wait a few hours before it all started to crumble once more.  
  
        After two days of no sleep, after seeing that monstrosity that may or may not have been a figment of my overworked imagination, I'd finally managed to drift off that night. It hadn't been a peaceful rest, but at that point, I was going to take what little I could get. Perhaps the overwhelming joy I'd been gifted at the doctor's had been just the thing my stressed mind had needed to be lulled into some state of unconsciousness that would grant me just the smallest increment of repose I so desperately craved.  
  
        The dream I'd had was unfortunately more of a nightmare and had thrust me right back into a distressed pattern. It had been incredibly vivid, so much so that I had been convinced it was reality, and what I did remember from it was enough to plague me with thoughts I didn't ever want to entertain. However, when my mind conjured up such images, it was impossible not to entertain them. Or at least consider them as potentially being true despite what I so desperately wanted to believe.  
  
        _Nirvana's_ Heart-Shaped Box _played quietly around my room as Tate and I were entwined on my bed. Supporting his weight with his forearms, he lifted his mouth from mine, hovering just above me with an impish smirk. His hands rested at the sides of my head, idly brushing back some of my hair. "I love you."  
  
        I raised my hands to cup his face, feeling the definition of his jawline and rubbing my thumbs over his cheeks. "I love you, too," I murmured. With a giggle, I brought his head back down, connecting us once more at the mouth.  
  
        Our lips moved together tenderly, sweetly, softer than ever before. There was no rush in our movements, no lustful fervor, no passionate desperation. We kissed as though it were our last, as though we wanted to draw out our affection for each other, keep it going for as long as we could to savor the moment between us.  
  
        A whiny mewling sound emitted from the crib a few feet away, quickly transforming into a piercing cry, broken only by the gasping hiccups as a breath was inhaled shallowly. Tate groaned lightly, the action vibrating against my lips, before pulling away. I laughed lightly and gently shoved him to the side so I could get up. He flopped dramatically onto the bed with an indignant huff as I approached the source of the heart-wrenching wails.  
  
        Reaching inside, I lifted the fussy bundle and cradled him to my chest, cooing and murmuring words of comfort, gently swaying back and forth in hopes of soothing our beautiful boy. His little face was scrunched up and red as he screamed, his eyes screwed shut as though even he didn't like the noise. His tiny hands curled to fist the fabric of my shirt as his cries gradually lessened until they were whimpers, and then he was silent, only the softest of whistles coming from his nose as he breathed deeply. I carefully lowered him into my arms so I was properly cradling him, still swaying to hopefully keep him asleep, and peered down at his peaceful face.  
  
        Tate came up beside me and wrapped an arm around my waist. Smiling, I leaned into his side, feeling him press a kiss to the side of my head. He lifted his hand to tenderly smooth the sparse blond hair covering our son's head, but his hand was covered in a black rubber material. I pulled back from his touch and whirled to face him. My heart lurched into my throat as I found myself looking at a familiar figure. The Rubber Man. Except he had two horns attached to his head, like a demon, and the eyes staring back at me were painfully familiar.  
  
        My baby began stirring again in my arms as I backed away, and I glanced down to see that it was no longer my boy. Well, it _ was _, but his soft head had sprouted two little horns to match his father's, and his legs had transformed to resemble those like a goat's, hooves and all.  
  
        "I saw the unclean thing you carry in your womb, Abigail. I saw the little hooves," I heard Dr. Hamilton recite, though out of order from what I remembered, his voice echoing around me. "The plague of nations, the Beast."  
  
        His eyes flew open to reveal two glowing rubies of pure evil._  
  
        I'd heard of expectant women experiencing odd dreams at night, vivid and lucid dreams that could seem alarmingly lifelike despite any strange occurrences, but no mother ever wanted to entertain the notion that her unborn child was the Anti-Christ, nor that the father of said child was the Devil. Leah had once told me the story of the Devil and had implied she had thought that's who Tate was. I'd rejected the notion. Tate was too much of a sweetheart in my eyes. But that dream, that  _nightmare_ , had brought another issue to light.  
  
        The Rubber Man, my nighttime assailant, my supposed rapist -- if he were real, if I hadn't conjured him up in my mind like I knew was feasible, was it in any way possible that Tate could be the entity under the latex? The more I thought about it, no matter how much I didn't want to travel that path, the more it seemed plausible. I shook it away. It wasn't true. Tate wouldn't do that to me. He loved me, and he was the one who said that if you loved someone, you should never hurt him. By that logic, he'd never hurt me.  
  
        My mind did a pretty decent job at pushing it all to the back of my head, out of focus, and between Eva and my job during the day, I managed to temporarily forget about it. Or at least I didn't think about it. Eva did a good job at distracting me. She'd been so thrilled to hear that I was having a boy. Sometimes it was easy for me to overlook how involved in my life Evaline Warren had become, but it was comforting to be assured that I'd always have someone who cared, whether it be Eva or Constance or Lana and Marion. There would always be someone interested in me and how I was doing.  
  
        Eva had been there from the very first symptom, and she had stuck by me through it all, and words could not express how grateful to and appreciative of her I was. I didn't know what I had possibly done to earn such a wonderful friend.  
  
        We parted ways after our shift at the coffee shop ended. As always, I felt pretty gross after getting off work, my aversion to coffee having not dissipated just yet, and I just wanted to return to my hotel room to attempt some rest. Mom had wanted me to go back home with her, but she'd said Ben refused to even so much as discuss me or my situation, and I didn't particularly want to be someplace where I was actively unwanted. Lana had wired me some money despite my protests, so I was good to pay for my room until at least they returned, at which point in time I may see about staying with them for a bit. Constance offered up her house again, like she'd done the day following my leaving, and as much as I wanted to accept, to be around my mother and sister and Tate again, I didn't think I'd be able to stomach being that close to Ben.  
  
        Despite how I felt about Ben, knowing my own father didn't even want me around hurt; he might as well have claimed to not love me anymore. As I still loved my father, despite how furious I was with him and how much I hated him for his actions alone, that was like a stab in the heart. I didn't want to confront that pain.  
  
        While I browsed the aisles of a gas station, having needed to fill my car up and already needing more jelly to satisfy my craving, my phone vibrated in my pocket, startling me slightly as it had been so silent that I'd nearly forgotten I'd had it on me in the first place. I pulled it out to read Violet's name printed across the screen. My brows furrowed as I stared at the phone for a second, trying to work out a reason as to why she would be calling since she had been so mad at me that she'd gotten me kicked out, before I verbally berated myself for my stupidity and accepted the call. I'd never find out if I didn't pick up.  
  
        "Yeah?" I answered.  
  
        It came off much ruder than I meant it to, but I was equal parts curious and confused, and I was also a little wary and skeptical. People didn't just randomly contact someone they were upset with. Violet hadn't so much as talked to me before once we'd drifted apart, she'd barely even spared me a passing glance that wasn't sharp and filled with unbridled scorn, so I had no idea as to why she'd be bothering to reach out to me now. I wasn't exactly in the mood to be bitched out, either, no matter what I may have done to her this time. Though I couldn't see what I could have possibly done to her given I hadn't so much as seen her since Thanksgiving over a week ago.  
  
        Had it really only been nine days? It felt like it had been so much longer than that. Weeks. Months, even.  
  
        I could sense her eye roll. _"Hello to you, too,"_ she drawled.  
  
        Her sarcasm threatened to make me smile. She'd been so withdrawn following the move that even her cynicism had been hidden from me. Lowest form of wit or not, her sarcasm had always been one of the things I adored most about my baby sister, and hearing it again, especially directed towards me without any genuine derision, was enough to remind me of what once was. The bond that we used to have.  
  
        My lips pressed together as I scrutinized my limited options. "So, do you still hate me, or are we on speaking terms again, now that you've gotten me removed from your vicinity?"  
  
         _"I didn't want that."_  
  
        "Right." The single word came out as being dismissive, and I wasn't entirely certain it wasn't meant to be. I didn't know what her goal had been when she'd revealed my pregnancy to my parents over Thanksgiving dinner. For all I knew, she'd been angling for my removal from the house, and she was just denying it because she didn't want to admit it to me. "So why'd you call?"  
  
        She sighed heavily. It sounded as defeated as it did agitated.  _"Whatever. Look, ever since you left, your boyfriend has been pathetic. He's been sulking and moping, and he's getting on my nerves,"_  she spat out. Despite her harsh tone, I detected no real malice behind her words. Just slight annoyance and exasperation.  
  
        My heart skipped a beat at the mere thought of Tate. He was easily the one I missed the most since leaving the house. I missed the way he was always there, even if I couldn't see him; the way he would always show himself at just the right time, just when I needed him the most; the way he held me each night, letting me drift off in his arms; the way his brain-to-mouth filter didn't always seem to function properly, provoking him to say something so stupid or ridiculous that it ended up making me laugh.  
  
        More than I missed him, though, I hated how he was missing out on the experience of everything involving the baby. That was more on me than it was anyone else. I'd been the one who'd been too scared to tell him he was going to be a father out of the fear that he wouldn't want anything to do with me, including our child. I didn't even know if Constance had told him any of it, or if he'd overheard Mom talking about it to anyone; I didn't know if he even knew anything at all. He could have still been left in the dark about everything as far as I was aware.  
  
        "Well," I exhaled, carefully pinning my phone to my shoulder with my ear, plucking two jars from the display and holding them both up, weighing the options, "What do you want me to do about it?"  
  
        A male voice came through on the other end. It was muted, and I could barely make it out, but I just managed to, and every fiber of my being told me it was Tate. Violet's voice came through quieter, like she had pulled away from the receiver, as she responded. Her voice I could make out easier. She was arguing with the other person. For my own amusement, since that was just one more thing lacking in my life lately, I remained silent, listening to her side, as that was the only one I could properly make out.  
  
         _"I'm talking to her now . . . I haven't asked her yet . . . Just give me a damn moment, would you? . . . I can't ask her if you don't shut up long enough to let me . . . Oh, for fuck's sake, here!"_  
  
        There was a slight shuffling as though someone was either fighting for the phone or it was being handed over to someone else. My eyebrows furrowed lightly in amused bemusement while I paid for my selected flavor and the amount of gas I needed. The person behind the counter fortunately either respected that I was on the phone or just wasn't in the mood to make conversation. He just did his job without the preamble and pleasantries, and I was on my way within a mere moment, all the while I was listening to the activity coming from the other side of the connection.  
  
        Finally the male voice came directly through the phone, and I felt my heart give a small jolt, an uneven rhythm to inwardly convey my instinctive reaction.  _"Abbie?"_  
  
        Words could not properly describe how happy hearing his voice made me. Though I supposed my body had that covered for me. I swore I could feel my hormones surge to immerse me in various emotions that, of course, provoked tears to spring up and prick at the corners of my eyes. As sick and tired as I was of crying, having done more than my fair share of it these past few days, I didn't bother trying to rid of the faint burning.  
  
        "Tate," I smiled, my voice wavering slightly with emotion, "Hi."  
  
         _"Hi, baby,"_  he breathed, sounding as though he were as happy as I was, if not more so,  _"When are you coming home?"  
  
        _ My curved lips parted slightly to release the air begging for freedom from my lungs. The exhale was liberated in a tiny huff of affection. I felt my heart swell with fondness. It made me feel loved that those words were the first out of his mouth when given the opportunity to talk with me after nine days. He wanted me to come home to him. The very thought elicited a certain warmth of joy, the idea that he still wanted me, that I was still loved.  
  
        That I was his  _baby_ \-- we'd never bothered before with terms of endearment, and hearing him call me that was enough to light my dour expression with an exultant grin. I was his baby, and -- my hand drifted down to my proliferated abdomen in reminder --  _I was carrying his baby_.  
  
        Tucking my lip between my teeth in thought, I let out a soft, indecisive sigh. There was no set time for my stay at the hotel. I wanted to return home, even more so now that I knew Tate apparently missed having me there with him, but I don't think I was ready to face what that entailed. Even if not returning meant not seeing Tate for an undetermined amount of time.  
  
        "I . . . don't know, Tater-tot," I answered honestly, cringing a little at the nickname I'd just pulled from the top of my head. It was so lame. What were we, twelve? "There's just . . . some things I need to sort through, and then Ben . . . I don't know when I'll be back."  
  
        My heart clenched at the sniffle that came through from the other end.  _"I miss you, though."_  
  
        Tears further dampened my already aqueous eyes. He sounded so miserable. It made me feel awful. Whenever he cried, it just broke my heart, because he always managed to look so anguished, and no matter whether or not I was the cause behind it, I just felt so sorry for him and wanted to do everything in my power to fix the issue and comfort him. Even now, just over the phone, I could imagine the desolate expression on his face, the briny moisture that glistened forlornly in his red-rimmed eyes and dropped down as they overflowed.  
  
        "I miss you, too, but I just -- I can't right now, Tate, I'm sorry." I pressed my lips together and sniffed to prevent myself from allowing the gathered tears to slip past their confines. "I love you," I tried. "Just, please don't be mad at me . . . "  
  
         _"I'm not mad, baby, I promise. I just hate this . . . I hate not seeing you or being there to help with, everything . . . Is it true?"_  
  
        He hadn't even needed to clarify what he meant. I knew what he was asking. Honestly I was surprised he hadn't interrogated me the second Violet handed him the phone. But I figured it was coming sooner or later. He hadn't been there for any of it. I hadn't told him despite how long I'd known. He didn't sound upset about it, and he'd said he wasn't mad, but I was still worried that he was. Even if he didn't convey it.  
  
        Taking a second to steel myself, I whispered, "Yes."  
  
        The line went silent for a moment, where the only sound I could hear over the crackling of the connection was his faint breathing, and I was afraid I was about to experience his anger. But I also didn't want to say anything out of the same fear. So I just squeezed myself behind the wheel and put the call on speaker so I could begin heading back to the hotel. It was becoming more arduous to angle myself in and out of the vehicle. The movements were more awkward than difficult, though, but it still didn't make anything easier on me. And I was aware that it would become much more burdensome and strenuous as time wore on.  
  
         _"Wow,"_  he finally verbalized, surprisingly me slightly with how soft the exhale was, " _That's -- that's just . . . wow. A baby. I'm gonna be a dad."_  He released a small laugh, and from the sounds of it, it had some wavering emotion behind it, but it didn't seem negative.  _"Why didn't you just tell me?"_  
  
        So I proceeded to tell him everything that had prevented me from just being honest. I admitted how scared I had been, how scared I still was, and I spilled my worries to him, fretting over the atypical rate at which our son was developing even though he appeared to be perfectly healthy, pining over the financial issues that would arise sooner than I could probably think of a remedy. I shared all of it with him without pause as it all just flowed forth. After internalizing so much of it for so long it was almost relieving to share it all with someone else.  
  
        The one thing I kept to myself was the dream I'd had following the gender reveal. Even I didn't want to dissect and analyze it, and the conversation had taken such a happy turn, I didn't want to say anything that had the potential to darken it. So I opted instead to just tell him baby Langdon, our precious little bean, was actually our darling baby boy. Which had sparked up the critical topic of what his name would be. We threw around a couple of ideas, none of them concrete, but his main suggestion was, of course, Kurt.  
  
        Now, I loved Kurt Cobain, but the name itself was so unattractive. But I agreed to at the very least consider it. Our little bean was the product of both of us. His father did have a say in his name. I just hoped we could compromise somehow or agree on a different name entirely. I was  _not_  naming my sweet, defenseless baby Kurt. I refused to inflict that sort of pain upon my child.  
  
         _"I love you, baby,"_  Tate proclaimed when I'd reluctantly informed him I had to go, the connection already crackling as I'd pulled up to the hotel, parking just far enough away from it to where the signal didn't drop all together,  _"I can't wait to see you again."_  My heart surged with fondness at those first three words I think I'd missed the most.  _"Same goes for little Kurt."_  
  
        "For the last time, we are  _not_  naming our little bean Kurt," I tittered, "But I love you, too, Tater-tot." Pulling the keys from the ignition, I leaned back in my seat and sighed happily. "Now let me talk to my sister. And be good! Quit your moping."  
  
        While talking with Tate, I'd decided to try to talk with Violet, properly this time. We needed to patch things up between us. I didn't know if things could ever be remedied, or if too much damage had been inflicted upon our relationship, but we needed to try. Though I wouldn't blame Violet if she wasn't up for it. She'd reached out to me tonight, and I hadn't exactly been so much as diplomatic about it, and I wanted to apologize for not bothering to listen to what she had to say, if she'd wanted to say anything about the situation.  
  
        Tate spared a small laugh and exchanged a final goodbye, albeit reluctantly as he did attempt to stall and keep us conversing, before the phone was handed back over to its rightful owner. I grabbed her attention before she had a chance to hang up. Which, if I knew my sister, she was about to do. She'd never been one to check if the other person was still on the line before severing the connection.  
  
        "Vi . . . I'm sorry, for everything," I apologized once she'd hummed noncommittally to show she was listening, "I was so wrapped in my own problems that, I guess, I  _was_  selfish. I should have been there, for you." My lips were tucked between my teeth as I allowed some emotion to roll into my voice. "I miss you, Vi. I miss how we used to be."  
  
        It was a second before I got a response. Part of me was convinced I wouldn't get one at all. But finally a exhale was heard and her voice came softly through the receiver.  _"You weren't the selfish one, Abbie, I was. I'm sorry for not realizing what you were going through . . . I should have supported you. Instead I just made things worse."_  
  
        "Don't blame yourself, Vi. It was my fault for even getting myself into this mess to begin with. I'm the one who keeps fucking everything up."  
  
        How could I have ever allowed my sweet baby sister to blame herself for what happened? She was not at fault in the least bit for my mistakes. Those were all on me. So, even though I still wasn't sure if she had meant for things to unfold the way they had, I couldn't be mad at her for any of it. Everything had been done by my hands, either directly or indirectly, in some way. She'd had nothing to do with my stupidity.  
  
         _"Abbie?"_  Violet spoke timorously just as we'd decided to sever the line so I could go inside and get some rest.  _"I -- I love you."_  
  
        Those three words, muttered and spat out as though they were forbidden to vocalize, were enough to break the gates I'd tried so hard to keep locked. I felt one tear slip away from its confines, and then another one, and more followed until each droplet was sliding down the curve of my round cheeks, trailing over my cracked lips and leaking, steadily and gradually, from my chin. My salt-saturated lips curved up into a watery smile as I returned the sentiment before I wiped at my dampened skin. If there was one thing I had grown sick and tired of, it was crying, and from all of it I'd been doing recently, I was surprised that I still held enough water in my body to produce any more.  
  
        I waited until each trail had dried to invisibility, and the puffiness and redness of my eyes had diminished, before finally squeezing out of my car and trudging through the fresh rain into the hotel with my newly acquired jar of preserves. My clothes had been completely deluged in the short journey down the sidewalk and dripped down to be soaked in by the plush carpeting. My face pinched up into a scowl as I cursed not owning an umbrella. The rain had permeated through to my socks, and there was no worse feeling, at least in my opinion, than wet socks. I shivered lightly from the cooler air of the lobby as it pricked at my exposed skin as it glistened with precipitation.  
  
        I was so preoccupied with shaking myself somewhat dry, muttering more than a few choice words in the process, that I would have completely missed the two women sitting on one of the sofas beneath the chandelier had they not called my name, and still it had taken me a second to process whose voices they were. But when I finally cleared my mind enough to realize who it was, I was surprised and thrilled to find the two women I'd probably needed the most during this time, the two who could have kept me better grounded had they been there. The two women who, had they been available, would have prevented me from having to check into a hotel in the first place.  
  
        "Lana, Marion," I breathed, my sodden clothing temporarily forgotten as I rushed towards them, meeting them halfway as they'd immediately stood and approached me with open arms, "I -- I'm so -- I've missed you so much."  
  
        No dictionary could even supply the words to properly describe the overwhelming feeling of relief and love and security that washed over me while embraced between them. It was so easy to forget how much you depended on someone until suddenly they were no longer there, and then you were left stranded, lost, with no sense of direction. That was more or less how I'd felt following Thanksgiving. Lana Winters and Marion Hart had been my biggest support system through my entire life, and without them I felt I had nothing left to anchor me to reality, like they were the sole individuals that held the power to keep me truly grounded. More so than even Tate.  
  
        It took every ounce of willpower not to start crying for what probably would have been the tenth time that day. The stinging of that irritating saline liquid was becoming much more familiar to me than I would have preferred. It was approaching the asinine point to where the nerves in my eyes essentially played opossum and went numb when the aqueous beads began to leak from their assigned duct.  
  
        Finally I allowed myself to be extricated from the comfort of their joint embrace. Instantly I realized my mistake as their warmth was no longer radiating onto my soused attire, which was clinging uncomfortably to my prickled skin in an attempt to dry, contouring to every curve my peculiarly accommodating body had to offer. I shivered lightly in response and grabbed at my arms.  
  
        Marion reached out and smoothed down my hair. Apparently it didn't bother her, nor Lana, that I was drenched. "We missed you, too, honey, and we are  _so_  sorry we weren't here for you," she apologized.  
  
        "But we're here now, sweetheart," Lana added, "And we're taking you home with us."  
  
        The news should have elated me. It should have had me jumping for joy and shouting in ebullience. A couple of days ago, and it would have. But something was different now. Even I didn't know what it was. Dubiety washed over me as I considered her words. They wanted to bring me home. Not home as in back to the Murder House, at least not from what I gathered from how she phrased it, but home as in back to their house. Which was what I'd wanted since Thanksgiving.  
  
        So why wasn't I lurching for that opportunity? Why wasn't I over the moon and zealous to finally leave this hotel once and for all, to finally be with the two women who could provide me with all the love and support I was currently lacking? Why was I on the fence?  
  
        After a second of questioning myself, the answer jumped out at me, plain as day. As the saying went: _'_ _if it were a snake, it would've bitten me.'_  I was hesitant to leave because then I'd be dependent on someone. I'd been dependent on someone my entire life, and now that I was edging towards legal adulthood with a baby on the way, I had to learn to care for myself. I had to learn how to be on my own. Especially in a time of need. The ones I depended on now, they weren't always going to be there for me to run to whenever I felt I couldn't handle something. They weren't always going to be available to help me out. One day, everyone I currently depended on would be gone, and if I didn't learn how to be independent now, I was going to find myself buried six feet under in a hole I'd dug for myself.  
  
        Staying at the Cortez, as unfortunate as the situation was for me, it had granted me a sense of self-sufficiency and -reliance, the reassurance that maybe I could make it on my own. That maybe, just  _maybe_ , I was capable of caring for myself in times of need, I was competent enough to care for myself  _and_  my child. Optimism was such a rare sentiment for me lately, and that slight epiphany, that small reassurance that I wasn't a lost cause just yet, ignited within me the faintest spark of hope that I could do this.  
  
        "I -- I want to stay here, at the hotel." My protests elicited mirror reactions of perplexity and astonishment as neither woman could believe I would prefer to stay in a hotel rather than with someplace with which I was much more comfortable. "It's just . . . I need to start being independent, you know? Especially with this little guy on the way." I lowered my hands to my inflated stomach, my mind's eye calling into picture the ultrasound, that 3D image with the tiny protrusion marking my little bean as a boy. "And, just, you know -- staying here is teaching me how to be self-sufficient, and I want to continue doing that. It -- it gives me something to be hopeful about."  
  
        "Honey, don't be silly," Marion laughed, wrapping her timeworn hands gently around my upper arms, either ignoring or not noticing how chilled and damp my flesh was in comparison to hers, "No, you're coming home with us. We can't let you stay in this hotel."  
  
        "No, no," Lana spoke, her tone as soft as the tender way she was gazing at me, "I think it's a good idea."  
  
        Marion gaped at her partner. " _Good idea?_  Lana, she's just a child!"  
  
        "She's a young woman, Mar, with a baby."  
  
        I listened idly while my two honorary grandmothers bickered over whether or not I should be allowed to stay at the Cortez or be forced to go home with them. Marion's argument was that I was only seventeen and trying to be  _this_  independent so young with so little means would place unnecessary stress on me and my baby. Lana countered that with how I  _did_  need to learn how to do it so I could be prepared to care for me  _and_  my baby when the time came. Neither of them bothered to involve me directly in the discussion, so I was left standing there somewhat awkwardly, shivering lightly and with aching feet, as I didn't want to sit on any of the furniture to avoid getting any of it wet.  
  
        A rush of air prompted me to glance behind me as someone walked through the entrance. My eyes briefly swept over his form. He certainly wasn't hard on the eyes. Dark brown hair styled short in the back but longer in the front, the strands appearing neatly brushed even as they fell to the side of his strikingly blue eyes. His softer jawline was accented with faint stubble, and his robust build, looking to tower above me at maybe about Tate's height, was perfectly tailored in a professional suit.  
  
        He flashed me a genteel smile in passing, which I urbanely returned, on his way to the front desk. Currently no one was stationed there, but he tapped the golden bell sitting on the surface, and within a few seconds Iris emerged from the backroom. She looked as world-weary and indifferent as I'd ever seen her. I frivolously watched the generic interaction between them before tuning back into the discussion before me --  _concerning_  me -- as my name was said intently.  
  
        "Abigail, sweetheart," Lana prompted, Marion pursing her lips with a stymied grimace, "If this is truly what you want, you can continue to stay here. So, is this what you want to do?" At my solid affirmation, the corners of her flatter lips curled up fondly, and her aging hands cupped my face clemently. "You remind me so much of your grandmother. She would be so proud of you, you know, just as I am."  
  
        The thought of Grandma Mary being proud of me, though highly unlikely, brought a smile to my face. No grandmother would be pleased to see their grandchild in the position I had gotten myself into. Maybe mine would have been supportive, and perhaps she would have been as big a help to me as my two honorary grandmothers, but there was no way  actually be _proud_ of me. Still, the idea was nice to consider, and it did warm my heart a little.  
  
        My dry lips pressed into a small smile. "Thanks, Lana. That . . . means a lot to me."  
  
        "I know, sweetheart." She dipped down and pressed her lips to my forehead in a chaste kiss. "Now, it's getting kind of late, and we have yet to go home. You won't be too upset if we leave for the night, will you?" I assured her that it was okay and that I understood. "All right then. We'll get together tomorrow -- no ifs, ands, or buts about it -- and discuss everything in full."  
  
        As always, we exchanged our love with kisses and hugs, and then they were out the door. In truth, I hadn't wanted them to leave, not just yet. I wanted them to stay just a bit longer. Just long enough to where I would be capable of retaining that almost forgotten sense of security. But I had just made my argument about being independent, and Lana had persuaded Marion to my cause as well, and I didn't want to go back on that. They wouldn't have faith in me if I had, and I would have been coerced into going home with them, when I didn't want that. I just wanted them to stay with me a little longer.  
  
        Heaving a sigh, I started for the elevator, mentally planning my evening. Maybe I'd try a warm bath and soak every inch of bloated flesh in tepid water. Or perhaps I'd stick to a shower and just stand underneath the steady stream for a bit. Then, all wrapped up in my coziest pajamas and possibly my robe, I'd wrap myself up in the warm duvet and somewhat satiate my curiosity about my baby boy's development by taking another look at that pregnancy book Constance had been kind enough to leave me. With my much needed pickles and preserves within reach of course. I couldn't be without my snack, and my little bean was certainly getting his fill of it, so I hoped he was good and happy.  
  
        With all the havoc he was wreaking on my body, and all the stress he was putting on me, he  _better_ be good and happy.  
  
        Zoned into my thoughts, I was properly startled when a hand unexpectedly darted out to slam against the closing elevator door, keeping them open. Sucking in a sharp breath from the jolt my heart took, I darted my enlarged eyes to meet the striking gaze of the individual from before, the man who had walked in during Lana and Marion's vague bickering. As though anticipating harm, my brain directed my hands to shield my stomach, crossing them slightly as they provided a barrier between the augmenting protuberance and any potential damage that may attempt to be inflicted upon that area.  
  
        Noticing my discombobulation, he spared me another smile, this one more gentle and contrite. His eyes softened minutely. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you, but you didn't seem to hear us."  
  
        He gestured behind him to Iris, who was still stationed behind the desk, her eyes watching intently. Realizing there was no imminent threat, I forced myself to relax, loosening my rigid muscles and taking a deep breath. My heart banged urgently against my chest still, but I knew it would calm gradually as the precipitate spike of adrenaline waned and dissolved from my system. I brought my hands away from my abdomen, one coming up to rest lightly against my breast, just over where my heart palpitated.  
  
        "Jesus," I breathed, huffing a slight laugh before replying properly, "No, I -- I didn't hear you, sorry." Clearing my throat, I proffered a simple upturn of my mouth out of courtesy, peering at him curiously. "What, uh, did you need?"  
  
        The last thing I wanted to do was stand there and make conversation. I was wet, and I was tired, and I was craving. All I wanted was to retreat to my room. But I couldn't very well make an escape with him blocking my path. His hand still held the door open, and until he moved it, that was how it would stay. So I supposed I had no other choice but to talk with him. With any luck it would be a short interaction and I could be on my way.  
  
        Admittedly it was likely nothing more obtainable than a pipe dream, but I had so little to be hopeful about, so I grasped onto that notion with no intention of allowing it to slip between my gradually bloating fingers.  
  
        At the insistence and request of both the man and Iris, I was coaxed back out into the lobby and up to the front desk, where I listened as the situation was explained to me. Apparently the man, who I was informed was a detective by the name of John Lowe, had been staying at the Cortez periodically for the past year and, as a supposed guest of honor, had the privilege of James March demanding Room Sixty-Four be available to him for the duration of each stay. Now my presence posed an issue given I'd been assigned to that very room. John repeatedly insisted he would gladly take another room, but Iris, as much as I could see wanted to concede, was firm in the decision that I must relinquish the key over to the detective per the owner's commands.  
  
        The situation had my muddled discontent rising to the surface, and, easily recognizing the resulting prick of tears, my mood soured. Everything about this was bullshit. Why should I have to give up my room to some stranger just because that damn March guy wanted him to have it? They shouldn't have even given me the room in the first place if it was 'reserved' for a specific person. It was silly of me to get so worked up over the matter, as I could just be moved to another room, but I was beyond frustrated to the obnoxious point of ridiculous tears, which I tried desperately to keep at bay.  
  
        Thankfully before my raging hormones got the best of me, which seemed to be happening more often lately than not, someone decided to intervene with a solution. Which led to me standing awkwardly just inside the hotel's top floor. Elizabeth, who had been up in the lounge with Donovan and Liz, had heard the slight commotion and, after learning what the ruckus was about, had offered up the guest bedroom of her penthouse suite. Initially I'd denied the offer, not wanting all of my embarrassing chaos to pose any sort of burden on her, but much like with that dinner with her ex-husband, she was able to beguile me into acquiescing in her request with little more than a delicate touch and silvery tone.  
  
        My eyes wandered over the space in wonderment. The hotel itself was of marvelous design, but while it possessed an antiquated motif, the suite was endowed with a modern refinement reminiscent of its residents. The main expanse was winsomely decorated with a variety of neon signs and artworks, expensive white furniture, and a glass chandelier of its own. Up a small set of stairs was the master bedroom, equipped with a luxurious round bed, and just off to the side of the bar was a small bathroom and the guest bedroom. Needless to say, I felt out of place in my generic maternity jeans, t-shirt, and scuffed sneakers.  
  
        "Wren, Holden," Elizabeth prompted, pulling my attention back towards her as she glided gracefully towards the middle of the room, where I had just overlooked the two individuals on the sofa, "Go retrieve Abigail's bags from Room Sixty-Four, please."  
  
        Prior to bringing me up here, I'd asked about my belongings, as my room key had already been taken and redistributed to John. Elizabeth had assured me she'd send someone to get them for me. I supposed I just wasn't counting on that someone to be children.  
  
        I studied them as they nodded obediently and moved in accordance to her request. They were both young, with pellucid skin and pale hair, much like Elizabeth. Wren looked to be maybe twelve or thirteen. When she glanced at me in passing I noticed her grey eyes underlined with puffy bags slightly darker than her natural pallor. Holden didn't look to be any older than seven at the most, and even that was a stretch, especially given how his lurid blues seemed to reflect a wonderment and innocence seen primarily in younger children who had yet to be subjected to the horrors of the world. Both were dressed in what appeared to be pristine school uniforms, formal in their black and white shades.  
  
        "Your children?"  
  
        "By all intents and purposes." Elizabeth sighed mournfully as she fiddled with the record player stood by the bar. "I've taken in a few wayward children and granted them the loving home they didn't have previously." As the needle came down to trace the vinyl, scratchy music began filling the space, floating around us in piano music. "Wren Pawlus and Holden Lowe are the most recent, but they've both adapted well to the change, and I couldn't ask for better angels." Her lips curled up lugubriously. "I'm going to go slip into something a little more comfortable. Please, make yourself at home."  
  
        Nodding my head, I watched as she disappeared into the master bedroom, shutting the door behind her for privacy. Still I remained standing. Despite her words, everything she owned looked so upscale, and I didn't want to ruin any of it by allowing my damp clothing anywhere near it. So I just stood where I was, gazing around and taking everything in, while listening to the thickly German-accented lyrics coming from the phonograph.

  
_But her friend is nowhere to be seen_  
 _Now she walks through her sunken dream_  
 _To the seat with the clearest view_  
 _And she's hooked to the silver screen_

  
        I recognized the singer as Elsa Mars. Personally, I never thought she was that great of a singer, but she put in so much of her soul into the words, it was hard not to be entranced by her voice. Fleetingly my grandmother had once mentioned that her cousin Charlotte, along with her husband Jimmy, who were Alexa's own grandparents, had known Elsa personally back in the early fifties. Before Elsa had ever even gone to Hollywood. When I was younger I'd found that sort of neat; how many people could say they were related to someone who'd known a celebrity personally? Though, in Los Angeles, a lot of people could probably say that, and in a way Lana was considered a celebrity, so we were all sort of connected to that life anyway.  
  
        Though I'd never actually sat down and listened to one of Elsa's songs before,  _Life on Mars?_  definitely spoke to me, in the sense of sunken dreams. She was singing about making it in Hollywood, but I still understood what she meant. A sunken dream was a sunken dream no matter what the dream was. Her sunken dream was making it on the 'silver screen.' My sunken dream was having a normal life with a loving family.  
  
        But, as I lowered my hand to my distended middle, perhaps it wasn't so sunken after all. Not for my little bean.

* * *

**Gah! I had done so well with the last update, this one was bound to be a disappointment, especially towards the end. I apologize for that. Fluctuating inspiration paired with personal issues doesn't exactly make for great writing or timely updates. And with college starting up in less than a month, the frequency is probably just going to drop even further, so I just want to apologize in advance for that.**  
  
**But, enough of that -- Tate made an appearance in this chapter! Obviously he isn't back into the picture just yet, but I promise, he will be soon. Some familiar faces also made appearances. Lana and Marion have finally returned and are available to support Abbie in her time of need, and John Lowe and two of the Countess' 'kids' have also made their way into Abbie's crazy life. It also looks as though Abbie's mind is trying to tell her something concerning Tate and their baby. But will she listen?**  
  
**As always, I encourage feedback, and I would love to know how you guys think I'm doing. I know I've diverted majorly from the show's plot, and as much of a hassle that is, it does serve a purpose in Abigail's journey.**

* * *

**Brittney : I am so happy you enjoy it so well! Thank you for taking the time!**

**Daniel Nessman : Sorry for the delay, I am awful when it comes to updating! Thank you for your interest!**


	32. Christmas Miracle

The days had just seemed to pass by without any indication. When I had first come to the Cortez, Thanksgiving had been drawing to its end. Now the turkeys and autumn leaves had been traded in for pine trees and mistletoe as Christmas announced its arrival.

 

To me, it didn’t feel much like the festive holiday it was meant to be. But given the current circumstances of my life, I supposed I didn’t find that all too surprising. Though I also supposed that was more a comment on how sad my life had become as of late. There wasn’t too much to celebrate when my life had been reduced to a constant cycle of stress and worry.

 

While the days had ticked on by, the true passage of time had been marked by my rapidly changing body.

 

The tight little drum of my stomach had swelled to a full barrel that needed to be supported by an elastic band. My breasts had hardened and bloated, leaking clear colostrum that tended to wet the front of my shirts at the most inopportune of times. In the matter of three weeks, I had gained a total of ten pounds; which, even given the advanced progression being monitored in weekly appointments by Dr. Kirkland, was still higher than what was recommended.

 

However, despite how tiring the accelerated development had proven to be, I was just relieved that my little bean was healthy.

 

When Dr. Kirkland had gotten back to me with the results of my blood tests, there was no true word to apply to the amount of relief I felt upon hearing that no anomalies had been detected. She had even remarked that my son was probably even healthier than I was. The only concern she’d had was the unknown cause behind the rapid development. That was something I myself often worried about, especially given my suspicions surrounding the nature of his conception, but the only option I truly had was just submitting to observation as time continued to trek onward.

 

Aside from my little bean, there really was only one other thing that could help make this holiday more enjoyable for me: my family. Everyone was set to go to Lana and Marion’s for dinner, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe such a gathering might not be such a good idea. Especially if Ben were to be there. He was one person I was  _ not _ ready to see. What did you say to your father on Christmas when he had kicked you out of the house on Thanksgiving?

 

I’d planned to head out to Lana and Marion’s later in the morning or early in the afternoon. Until then, I had nothing better to do than just hang out at the Cortez. That didn’t particularly bother me as I had come to tolerate - and even enjoy - some of the company there, but I also wished there were more for me to do outside of Elizabeth and Donovan’s penthouse suite.

 

Over the three weeks that I’d been occupying the guest bedroom, which was a bedroom worthy enough of even Marlene Lovell or Audrey Tindall, Elizabeth hadn’t indicated once that I was a bother. Donovan, on the other hand, remained as cold and indifferent towards me as when we had first met. The constant rolling of his eyes and dismissive remarks did have me worrying that perhaps I was imposing more on their lives than I’d originally thought.

 

Elizabeth’s constant assurances never  _ really _ reassured me. A good hostess knew not to make their guest feel unwelcome, after all. Even when she greeted me with a warm smile and presented to me a gift for Christmas, I knew she had to be growing tired of me impeding on her routine.

 

My lips parted slightly in disbelief as I examined the five-in-one diaper bag she’d handed to me, filled with an entire feeding set. A smaller diaper bag, changing pad, bottle bag, food bag, various bottles, nipples, cleaning brushes, pacifiers, storage caps, a bottle warmer, formula dispenser, microwave steam sterilizer bags -- she had really gone all out.

 

Initially I had attempted to refuse it, almost feeling bad for accepting it, but she managed to convince me that I needed it. I  _ did _ need it, and even Donovan had reluctantly made the point that already having this for the baby would save up some money. Unfortunately that wasn’t one I could refute, as I didn’t make all that much working at  _ Cafecito Organico _ , and Elizabeth didn’t want to hear of me refusing her Christmas present to me anyway.

 

“Really, thank you both so much,” I repeated with a smile, carefully lifting myself from the chair she had sat me down in. “I actually have something for you. Just let me go have it sent it up.”

 

Money was a bit of an issue for me, but I’d splurged and bought a few items for mostly everyone I felt I needed to. My hosts had been first priority as I’d needed some way to repay them for putting up with me for so long. They’d been a bit difficult for me to shop for, as they were so  _ debonair _ and I couldn’t really afford anything extravagant, but I’d finally settled on a simple wine and truffle gift basket.

 

Ms. Evers was graciously keeping it chilled in the kitchen. All I had to do was call the front desk, and it would be brought up in time. So I politely excused myself from lounge area and used my temporary bedroom for privacy.

 

My own phone rang just as I was hanging up the mandatory hotel receiver. A smile came to my face as my mom’s face lit up the screen. Putting it on speaker so I could get dressed, I accepted the call with a simple, “Hello?”

 

_ “Merry Christmas, Abbie!” _ a total of what sound like three voices chimed.

 

“Merry Christmas,” I returned. “Who all’s with you, Mom?”

 

_ “Violet, of course, and Tate’s here too.” _

 

_ “Hey, ba- Abbie. Sorry, Mrs. Harmon.” _

 

I couldn’t help but release a soft laugh at the sudden change. Mom must not be too comfortable with him yet. Honestly, I couldn’t really blame her. He’d gotten me pregnant  _ and _ he was one of Ben’s psychiatric patients. That wasn’t exactly son-in-law material. But it really meant a lot to me that she was trying to accept him, or at the very least she realized how important Tate had become to me -- despite how  _ bad _ for me he might have been.

 

As we chatted, I carefully dressed for the day in what I deemed to be a relatively decent outfit for the holiday; one that still remained comfortable. The dark wash denim stretched softly over my lower figure, the wide elastic band hugging just underneath the swell of my stomach, and the knit cotton of my reindeer sweater wasn’t abrasive against my skin. A basic pair of socks protected my feet from the interior of my paneled wool boots while the legs of my jeans were tucked inside as well. My hair was pulled up into a simply ponytail, and my favorite peach-hued gloss coated my lips while a white shade shimmered the tops of my eyelids.

 

It was with a sigh that I announced I was about to head out, which Mom responded to with the disheartening news that she was feeling ill and wouldn’t be joining us for dinner. Her own pregnancy was giving her some issues with her health. It was upsetting to hear, but I definitely understood, so of course I didn’t give her grief about it. Instead I promised to stop by after dinner to bring her some leftovers and spend some time with her and Violet.

 

Liz greeted me merrily as I headed through the lobby on the way out to my car. Setting my eyes on her seasonal attire, I returned the greeting with a fond smile. She’d gone all out with coordinating red and green fabrics and accessories, and her nails had even been done as French tips with alternating red and green bows. Having her display such genuine holiday spirit was nice when I couldn’t really muster it up for myself.

 

“So where are you two headed this morning?” she inquired.

 

The manner in which she always greeted not only me, but the little one growing inside of me, always managed to put a smile on my face. True to the sentiment, one formed plainly as I brought my hand to rest upon the swell straining against its cotton prison.

 

“Out to visit my grandmothers for the day,” I answered. “We’re having dinner there tonight, I thought I would head there early to help prepare for tonight.”

 

Liz smiled, the gesture bright. “How sweet of you. But that might not make the ‘master’ so happy.”

 

My brows furrowed. She clicked her tongue and excused herself momentarily. I frowned. I knew that this “Master” she spoke of was in fact the very James March that had developed an odd fascination with me over my time in his hotel. Uncertain chills pricked at my skin, the hair at the nape of my neck standing on end, at what she could possibly mean. With him, I supposed it really could be anything.

 

She was in the back room for only a moment before she reemerged with a garment bag. Brandished in her other hand was a formal envelope, the cursive on the front spelling out my name in a beautifully mastered hand. I rose an eyebrow.

 

Liz draped the garment bag over the front desk and handed me the envelope. “Merry Christmas from the royal ass upstairs.”

 

Despite my confusion, I found myself proffering up an amused smile and light chuckle at her continued reference to James being insufferable. Which he had definitely proven to be. Taking the envelope, I glanced down to it, briefly taking in the red wax seal pinning down a crossed black ribbon. Briefly glancing up to Liz with a hint of confusion, I pried it open and revealed the paper waiting inside.

 

_ ‘You are cordially invited to a dinner, in celebration of the Christmas holiday, hosted by James Patrick March. December 25th at 7pm. It is requested that you wear the evening gown provided. Please be prompt.’ _

 

“What the hell?” I mumbled.

 

Tucking the invitation under my arm for temporary holding, I set about unzipping the garment bag. Each side fell away as the zipper lowered to reveal a beautiful gown, blood red and black coalescing to create an elegant detail. My lips parted in awe as I marveled at the dress, noting the dated style that made it all the more lavish.

 

I let my hand brush over the silken material before withdrawing it, shaking my head. “No. I can’t - I can’t accept this.”

 

“I figured as much,” Liz mused, taking it upon herself to tuck the evening wear back into its bag. “I even told him so, but . . . well, you’ve seen how he is.”

 

I nodded in acknowledgement. To say James was obstinate was certainly an major understatement. With a promise to deliver the disheartening news with thinly veiled amusement, Liz bid me a merry Christmas before allowing me to finally leave the lobby.

 

Rain pattered softly as I made my way over to Lana and Marion’s. Though the air was cooler than it had been, it was nothing compared to the below freezing temperatures Boston experienced this time of year. My sweater helped retain my body heat as I drove without the heater on. I might have even had my windows rolled down had it not been for the gentle precipitation that made me miss the snow.

 

Halfway through the drive, I was surprised to receive a call from Alexa. We had spoken a few times since we’d first connected, but honestly, she had completely slipped my mind that morning. I felt bad about that now that I know it hadn’t been the same case with her. As with our other calls, the conversation was kept fairly short. We left off with the seasonal sentiment and a promise to keep in touch. That was a promise I did fully intend to keep. She was family, and she was without hers for the holidays.

 

I made a mental note to look into flying to New Orleans some time to go and see her.

 

I was received with the expected Christmas cheer and welcome upon showing up at Lana and Marion’s with a bag of presents dangling from my hand. Both women eagerly swept me along inside to bombard me with inquiries about my wellbeing and the baby’s development. Of course I readily answered anything they asked of me, but only after they’d agreed to let me help in the kitchen. It had been too long since I’d last baked or cooked; I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

 

Memories of better times resurfaced. It was nearly enough to make me forget momentarily everything that was currently going on in my life, how it had all spiraled down the proverbial drain in such quick succession.  But I couldn’t just wipe it from my mind all together. Not that I particularly wished to, either, as my growing stomach kept bumping against the counters as a reminder of all that had changed; some for the bad, some for the good, some to be determined.

 

Just as we were preparing the last of the meal, the doorbell rang. Humming, I announced I would get it and popped my index finger into my mouth as I walked through the house, removing the icing from the digt. I pulled it out as I opened the front door.

 

I let out a small laugh of surprise. “Constance! What are you doing here?”

 

“Your . . .  _ grandmothers _ invited me.” Despite her clear discomfort upon mentioning Lana and Marion, her smile lit up her elegantly aged features as she stepped inside and embraced me in a warm hug before pulling back. “Look at you, sweetheart. You are just glowing.”

 

“It’s the sweat,” I excused. “Please, come on inside.”

 

Constance let me guide her into the sitting room, where Lana and Marion were just setting out a new bowl of of peppermints since we’d ended up absently going through them earlier. They exchanged polite greetings rather stiffly. It was obvious that they weren’t fond of one another, but I was satisfied that they were making the attempt. My mother and sister couldn’t be here, so it meant a lot that I at least had them.

 

Dinner, thankfully, went by without much trouble. We said grace and enjoyed the meal. I found myself to be the mediator for the conversation. The fact that I was sort of the “middle man” was vaguely annoying, but it was something I could tolerate given that it was Christmas and I wasn’t looking for any heated disagreements to break out between three women who meant the world to me.

 

We saved the gift-exchanging for after dessert. Once the chocolate almond cake had been cleared away, whipped buttercream icing and sugared cranberries and all, we returned to the sitting room.

 

The Christmas tree was decorated simply, with silver ornaments hung and tinsel draped gracefully, stars adorning a few branches here and there. There were no lights strung, but it was beautiful as it was. It had almost a modern taste to it, much like the house it was in, and I found myself entranced by the elegance nonetheless.

 

The vague tension dissipated as everyone gifted and received. From Lana and Marion, I’d gotten a nice car seat. It was a neutral grey shade and was guaranteed to fit a child through all stages. I’d gotten them a couple of spa experience tins; complete with some bath tea and truffle, lotion, and lip balm. It wasn’t much, but I couldn’t exactly afford to go all out on presents.

 

Constance presented me with a more worthy spa set than I’d bought for Lana and Marion, except she said it was from my family; from Mom, Violet, and Ben. It consisted of everything from bath salts to body lotion, all in a honey vanilla scent, and even came with a loofa and slippers.

 

“I know you plan on heading over there tonight,” she said as she handed it to me, “but your mother wanted me to give this to you in case you didn’t make it for some reason.”

 

Constance herself gifted me with a simple bassinet. Though she did not have it with her currently, as she had left it at home so I wouldn’t have to worry about where to put it while I was still at the Cortez, she pulled out a photo of it, featuring a sleeping baby she identified as Addie. It was a light wicker, simple in design, and had a compartment underneath for storage.

 

“All my children slept in this bassinet,” she reminisced, a nostalgic smile touching her gracefully withered lips. “Now, so will my grandchild. If you want.”

 

I smiled gently and leaned over to embrace her. “Of course. Thank you so much.”

 

As I pulled back, I felt an odd sensation in my stomach. Letting out a soft sound of surprise, I moved my hand to my abdomen. My brow dented as I tried to determine what it had been. Of course my change in demeanor and subsequent actions had alerted the three women, and all of them were adamantly questioning what was happening, what I was feeling.

 

I didn’t know what to tell them at first. It had felt like when I’d have a buildup of gas, only more prominent and less like the feel of popcorn. This time had been more like a swarm of butterflies. A moment passed before more movement caught my attention. It was like a faint sense of tumbling over the front and top of my stomach, not too strong but just potent enough for me to feel it.

 

Tears of wonderment sprung to my eyes as I looked back up at them. “I . . . I think I just felt him kick. He’s moving.”

 

Three pairs of hands were immediately at my stomach, joining my own as I lifted my sweater to reveal the pale brown line extending past my navel - the  _ linea nigra _ , I’d been told it was called. We waited, the anticipation building as the seconds ticked by. Then another flutter passed, and their faces lit up as the faint vibrations hit each of their hands as they rippled through.

 

Similar sounds of adoration and amazement whispered through the older women as they marveled at the sensation. I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with emotion. I’d seen my baby on monitor, heard my son’s heartbeat, but this was the first time I had actually  _ felt _ him. He was alive, he was strong.

 

He was my Christmas miracle.

* * *

**Nine months have passed... and here I am! I have reemerged with a hopefully decent chapter. I'm not promising to keep updates regular from here on out, but I am going to try and focus more.**

* * *

**Mya** **: Thank you, sweetheart. Abbie is growing up!**

**CandiedBlueberry : Thank you!**

**Aftokratoras : I'm so happy that you like this story, my love. But I will always be uncertain of my writing abilities, especially when my writing styles change as they do. I experiment with different methods, so I don't have just one distinct style of writing, unfortunately.**

**World_Lover12 : Thank you, that means so much to me. I'm so glad you're enjoying it!**


	33. Welcome Home

Once the Christmas season had rolled over into the new year, I had settled back into a normal routine. Or at least what had become the usual for me. My most common route was just a paved way between work and what had become home, even temporarily; on occasion, if I were lucky enough, I would swing by Lana and Marion’s or meet Constance or my mom somewhere, maybe even grab some lunch with Eva during our break.

 

Thankfully Mom was doing a lot better than she had been on Christmas. As promised, I’d swung by the house to pay her and Violet a visit and give them their small presents. She’d been confined to the couch the entire time I was there, with Violet keeping watch over her. It was nice for me to see that they had found some sort of rhythm with each other when Ben wasn’t around - wherever the hell he was, I didn’t bother asking - especially since my sister had used to spend all her time locked away in her room with Morrissey blasting in her ears to tune out the world outside.

 

I was asked to come back home, pleaded with even. As much as I’d wanted to accept the invitation, I’d just felt as though it were better for me to stay at the Cortez for now. I’d turned it down with a promise that I would come home soon. Preferably once Ben had finally left.

 

The ache continued to strangle my heart whenever I thought of it. My father’s rejection wasn’t even the most painful anymore, but rather being away from my family at a time where we both needed to be together. It weighed on me the following days as I debated moving back in, to be back home with my sister, mother, and unborn sibling - and the father of my son.

 

Much to my disappointment, I hadn’t seen Tate while visiting. I had, however, run into the smallest hint of trouble with a mischievous pair of red-haired twins. Troy and Bryan Rutger, the boys whose bodies had been discovered down in the basement in 1978. They had decided to amuse themselves by moving around the tea bags before finally revealing themselves as I’d quietly called them out for their shenanigans, being mostly numb now to any sort of paranormal happenings.

 

Their faces were covered in blood and deep scratches, their throats seemingly slit by what appeared to be claws. The sight had made me swallow back a small amount of bile that had risen from my own throat at the sight. Perhaps it was because they were just children, and my being pregnant brought out the sentiments that made the connection between them and the little bean growing inside me.

 

They also weighed on me as I resumed my routine. Even after all I had seen, some things just wouldn’t leave my mind at peace.

 

I was lost in my head as I crossed the lobby over to the golden elevator. My hand rested at the small of my back as I waited, trying to soothe away the ache and strain that had settled there in response to my still expanding stomach. Even in just under two weeks, my abdomen had gone from just poking over my waistband to leading the way when I walked. Well, waddled might be a more appropriate term to describe my gait now.

 

“Good evening, Miss Harmon.”

 

The agonizingly familiar tone brought me from my thoughts. My eyes rolled in habitual response. Every time he showed up, he somehow possessed the ability to know exactly what to say to put a damper on my day - even if my day had already been ruined, he’d developed the irritating custom of making it worse for me. He did it on purpose too, if the glint of malicious amusement in his eye every time spoke for anything.

 

I breathed in deeply through my nose and pursed my lips. “Hello, Mr. March.”

 

He let loose an airy chuckle, the one that he so often did when he noticed my candorly dislike towards him. As I flicked my gaze sharply to the side to see him, he had his hands clasped gracefully behind his back as he faced the elevator same as I. I noted that, for once, he appeared to be without his cane.

 

“Your day has been pleasant, I trust,” he said.

 

“It was fine.”

 

My answers were kept short, succinct, and the to point. They had been ever since our earlier interactions back when I first arrived at his hotel in November. Of course it didn’t seem to matter how eloquent my responses to him were, he never seemed to get the hint that I was rarely ever in the mood to converse with him. Though I had the suspicion that he knew this quite well and merely continued on the grounds of annoying me for whatever reason he had developed.

 

His head dipped downwards in a silent acknowledgement. For a moment I thought that perhaps, with a light of hope, he was going to end the discussion there. The elevator dinged to announce its arrival. The doors slid open. James, ever the gentleman, held them open while I stepped inside the carriage before following suit.

 

He pressed the corresponding buttons, one for his floor and one for the penthouse suite.

 

“Your hosts have gone out for the evening,” he shared after a moment, dimming the hope I’d had the audacity to accumulate. “Perhaps you would like to join me for dinner in lieu of spending the evening alone.”

 

Even as I remained standing forward, my eyes slid over to him. “Perhaps I wouldn’t. Perhaps I enjoy being alone.”

 

“A lovey young lady such as yourself should never be dwindled down to her own company.” The elevator stopped at the seventh floor and opened up. “I’ll be expecting you within the hour, my fiery little bearcat.”

 

He stepped out with a smile and headed down the hall, whistling a jovial tune without even turning to look at me once. I rolled my eyes as the doors slid closed once more and the elevator continued its ascent to the top floor. I’d given in to him once, I wasn’t suffering through another meal with him again. Certainly not after I’d mortified myself the last time.

 

Although, even I had to admit that he did have that one coming. It was vaguely satisfying to think of now, even though still twinged with the embarrassment of the moment.

 

The suite was empty when I stepped out, silent. It did appear as though Elizabeth and Donovan weren’t there. Having grown used to having Elizabeth there to greet me when I returned from work, it was almost weird stepping into the still absence of her presence.

 

Shrugging off my jacket, I headed back into the spare bedroom. Draped elegantly over the bed was the very dress that I had turned down on Christmas. A note card sat delicately over the fabric, placed deliberately so it would not be overlooked. I picked it up.

 

_ ‘I am not a man whose offer you wish to deny, Miss Harmon. I look forward to your company tonight. Wear the dress, I do think it would look most divine on you.’ _

 

Scoffing in disgust, I flicked the card into the small trash bin by the nightstand. Who the hell did he think he was? There was no way I was having dinner with him again. Certainly not with his manner of asking. He more demanded my company than requested it. That wasn’t going to happen.

 

I lifted the dress and moved it to drape over the back of the chair so the bed was cleared. I’d find something to do with it that didn’t involve giving into James. The gown was beautiful, no doubt about that, but it was way too much. It wouldn’t be right for me to accept it. If I was being honest with myself anyway, I was a little weirded out that he had tried to give it to me - twice - as a present. His strange fascination with me, while creepy from the beginning, only seemed to grow stranger as time went on.

 

Needing to unwind, I grabbed the spa set from Christmas and my bathrobe before heading to the bathroom.

 

The honey vanilla aroma worked wonders in soothing me. After spending some time soaking in the salts and using the body wash, I dried off and applied the lotion before heading on back to the bedroom. Elizabeth and Donovan had yet to come back home, and as odd as I found their lack of presence, I was starting to enjoy the silence it granted. If they were home, I definitely wouldn’t have dared to take as long in the bath as I just had. In fact, I would have just settled for a quick shower.

 

I’d just pulled on my nightclothes when the landline rang shrilly. “Hello?”

 

_ “Abbie?” _

 

It was Violet. She sounded upset, more than her usual angsty teen shit. It sounded like she’d been crying. Immediately my instincts kicked in, and I frowned, cradling the phone close to my ear as I tossed my dirtied clothes into the hamper provided.

 

“Violet? What’s going on, what’s wrong?”

 

_ “It’s Mom . . . Dad had her taken away.” _

 

“What do you mean, ‘taken away?’”

 

She sniffed.  _ “I - I don’t know, like to a state hospital or something? I just . . . Please come home. I can’t do this without you anymore. I don’t know what to do, I need you.” _

 

My heart dropped so low that I could almost feel it sitting right in my stomach, ready to fall out of my body all together. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Ben had committed Mom, who was  _ pregnant _ , to a state hospital - and for what? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t going to ask just now. It wasn’t as important as me being there for my sister.

 

Violet needed me. Her being so vulnerable was difficult for me to hear. She’d always been strong, or at the very least had always been a master at concealing her emotions behind a mask. I’d always been able to see through the mask. But I hadn’t been there.

 

I had to go home.

 

“Hang in there just a little bit longer, Vi,” I calmed, already shoving my bare feet back into my boots. “I’m leaving now, okay? I’ll be there soon. I love you.”

 

_ “I love you too . . .” _

 

The receiver was haphazardly placed back in its cradle as the line went dead. I grabbed my phone and my keys. Shoving my arms back through my jacket, I pushed the button to call the elevator, pleased when the doors slid open almost straight away. The ride down seemed longer than usual as I was bouncing on the balls of my feet. My teeth worried at my bottom lip, my hand jangling my keys against my thigh incessantly.

 

I was a mess of nerves, of worry and anger combined. How  _ dare _ Ben have Mom committed? He’d gone through two complete pregnancies and one miscarriage, didn’t he even realize yet that stress was harmful to the baby? Mom couldn’t survive another miscarriage, I knew she couldn’t. Her psyche wouldn’t be able to handle the loss.

 

As though sensing my distress, my little bean began tumbling inside his confinement. His movements had already started becoming stronger and happening more often, to the point where I was able to monitor him. Per Dr. Kirkland’s suggestion, of course, considering his unnatural development.

 

Releasing a heavy breath, I gently rubbed over the area getting pummeled by what I could only assume was his feet. “I know, baby. But we’ll get through this. I promise.”

 

The elevator slowed to a stop at the lobby of the Cortez. I set to rush out as soon as the doors opened, only to find someone standing in my way. Any normal person would have moved aside to allow me to pass, as per the social etiquette everyone was taught to follow, but this was no normal person. This was the man who had very quickly become the bane of my stay at the lavish hotel.

 

“I can’t talk now,” I spat out before he could even open his mouth. “I have to get home.”

 

James’ mouth twitched at the edges, his hand shooting out to grab my upper arm as I went to move by him. “Now, my dear, that is not very polite. Nor is running out on me when we have dinner plans. Explain yourself, dearest.”

 

Scowling, I ripped my arm out of his grip and glared up at him. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Now get the fuck out of my way.”

 

“My, what a temper. You certainly are a bearcat,” he mused, irritatingly unphased by my attitude towards him. “But I am afraid you do, in fact, owe me an explanation, my darling Abigail. You understand that leaving me waiting for your arrival so I can enjoy your company over dinner is not how a lady should behave. Nor is using such profane language, which I must ask you please refrain from doing.”

 

His adamance of my attendance at his precious dinner more than just merely grated on my nerves. He refused to move out of my way, effectively blocking my path each time I attempted to move forward. Normally I wouldn’t be in the mood to deal with him anyway, but now that I  _ needed _ him to leave me alone, the fact that he refused to do so was rage-inducing.

 

My anger surged.

 

“I  _ said _ ,” I gritted out from behind my teeth, “get the fuck out of my way.”

 

Balling my hand into a fist, I cocked it back and swiftly launched it forward so it hit directly at his throat. His hand instantly came up to wrap around the injured spot while he gasped for air, choking slightly as he struggled to get it in. I took no time to revel in the satisfaction delivered unto me by that action, instead rushing around him and leaving the hotel as quickly as I could maneuver.

 

Violet was waiting for me when I got there. As soon as I parked the car in the drive, she was pulling the front door open and racing down the porch. I angled myself out of the driver’s seat with as much grace as I could possibly manage without toppling and wrapped her up in my arms as she came to me.

 

The last time I remembered truly hugging her was back when we first came to Los Angeles to check out the house. Our relationship had been strained since then, given the events that had followed. Even on Christmas our hug had been an awkward side deal that was over just as quick as it had started.

 

This hug was awkward, but it more had to do with my stomach being sandwiched between us rather than the act itself.

 

Reluctantly I pulled back after a moment, pushing her caramel hair back from her face and giving her a strained, soft smile. “Come on, let’s go inside, okay?”

 

She nodded. I kept up my smile and tucked her into my side, gently guiding her back up the drive and into the house. I led her into the kitchen, where I was faintly surprised to find Moira taking a whistling kettle off the stove. The elderly woman turned to give me a timeworn smile.

 

“It’s lovely to see you again, Miss Harmon,” she greeted. “Would you care for some tea? Your mother has stocked up on rooibos; it doesn’t have any caffeine and is a great source of antioxidants.”

 

“That would be wonderful, Moira. Thank you,” I said, sitting Violet at the table by the window and squeezing myself in the booth across from her. “Where’s Ben?”

 

My sister shrugged, picking at her nails. “Hospital. Mom accidentally shot him in the shoulder during a freakout, it’s why he had her taken away.”

 

I nodded, accepting the tea when Moira came to set it down in front of me. The conversation from there came rather forced. Violet wasn’t in the mood to talk about anything. Not that she ever particularly was anyway. But it took a good hour or so for her to be ready for rest.

 

Despite her objections, I’d tucked her in and even stayed with her until she’d fallen asleep. Seeing Violet be so incredibly vulnerable, so lost and uncertain and scared - it was heartbreaking for me. I hated it, and I hated it even more knowing that I hadn’t been there for her, that I could have returned home but didn’t.

 

I felt horrible for letting her down again.

 

“I love you,” I whispered, kissing her forehead once she’d fallen asleep.

 

Slipping from her room, I quietly shut the door behind me. My hand rested against the wooden surface as I stood just outside, my eyes closed to hold back the fresh sting of tears I could feel pricking at them. Why?  _ Why _ did this have to happen to us? Why couldn’t we just live in peace, without all the torment and the anguish that we were facing?

 

_ What had we ever done to the universe to make it turn against us so harshly? _

 

With a sigh, I pushed away from her room and decidedly disappeared into my own. I took a moment to glance around, taking in the feel of being there again after so long. It gave the sense of me having been away for much longer than I had been. But nothing appeared to have been touched or moved since I’d left.

 

A sound from behind caught my attention, and I turned to see Tate. The ends of his sleeves were pulled down over his hands. He was picking at the loose threads as they frayed there. His lower lip rolled from his teeth as he looked at me, his mouth curling in the smallest hint of a smile.

 

“Hey,” he said quietly.

 

The tears that I’d been holding back at Violet’s door pushed their way to the surface, and I offered up a watery smile of my own as I joked weakly, “What the hell are you doing in here?”

 

His smile brightened some at the reference to what I’d said to him repeatedly when we’d first met, whenever I’d found him in my room. He moved forward and swept me up into his arms, noticeably mindful of my stomach as he was gentle in his embrace, angling his body away slightly so as not to press directly against the swollen flesh.

 

Hot tears tracking down my cheeks, a feeling very much familiar to me by this point, I eagerly returned the affection. He was warm, despite not being alive, and I was comforted by that as it enveloped me along with the scent that I’d come to associate with him. I couldn’t name it, but it was just  _ him _ , it was just Tate.

 

Tate pulled back and gently laid his lips across mine, softly capturing me in a gentle kiss that I was only too happy to reciprocate. My arms slowly looped around his neck to pull him in as close as my ballooning stomach would allow. We separated after a moment, our foreheads pushing together momentarily. His hands rose to cradle my face, his thumbs wiping the moisture from my cheeks.

 

“Welcome home,” he murmured.

 

Seeing his eyes misted over with the same tears that spilled from mine, I smiled and grabbed his hand, moving it to my stomach. The baby was kicking up a storm in response to the emotions rolling through me, and I wanted Tate to feel that. He needed to feel his son move.

 

My smile softened at the expression that crossed his face. “That’s our baby, Tate. Our son.”

 

We settled onto my bed. Few words were exchanged between us as we just found the comfort in each other’s company. He expressed his condolences for what had happened with my mother, and the situation in general, and I watched as he felt my stomach for the first time since finding out I was pregnant.

 

Being back in his arms, it brought the best source of comfort to me in the time where I needed it most. I could sense that it was something he needed, too, as he refused to move more than an inch away from my side. It was mostly quiet between us, with gentle murmurs of affection and light comments, almost as though neither of us wished to ruin the moment between us.

 

But something was bothering me, and I had to be the one to break the shell that had formed around us. I gently traced along his palm with the tip of my fingernail while his other hand rested on my stomach, where it had been firmly stationed since we laid down on the bed, ever since he had first felt the little bean move.

 

“Tate,” I prompted quietly, chewing on my bottom lip as I decided to just go for it instead of beating around the bush, “Why didn’t you tell me you were dead?”

 

The tension that stemmed from my question was immediate and prominent. His entire body tensed. All movements of his hand against my stomach stopped. I waited patiently for him to respond, though the anticipation was difficult to bear.

 

Finally he shrugged. “What would I have said? ‘Hi, I’m Tate. I’m dead. Wanna hook up?’ I don’t think so.”

 

Mostly for his benefit, I let out a soft laugh. My fingers intertwined with his as I lifted his hand up to my mouth, placing a gentle kiss against his knuckles. Tate seemed to relax some at the gesture, but started chewing his lip.

 

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “It’s about Violet.”

 

“What about her?”

 

“That night you two argued, she uh . . . she took some pills.” His voice was quiet, like he was ashamed or even afraid of how I might react, but he gripped my hand tighter as though he knew the news would cause me pain. “I tried to save her, Abbie, but I didn’t get to her in time. She’s, uh . . . she’s like me.”

 

The news gave me pause. It took a moment for me to process. I went silent as I did, letting it sink in. How was I supposed to react to that? Not only was my baby sister dead, she’d committed suicide. She’d done it because of  _ me _ , because of my selfishness, because I’d been too wrapped up in what was going on with myself that I’d refused to be there for her.

 

“I’m sorry,” he continued, his voice slightly hoarse. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t wanna hurt you.”

 

“It’s fine . . .” My voice was hoarse and quiet as the emotions kicked in, and I swallowed thickly. “I - I understand, I just . . .”

 

When I took in a deep breath, it was released in a choked sort of sob. Tate moved further up and gathered me into his arms, holding me close. He didn’t say anything, he just held me. Honestly that was all I needed. What was there even to say about it? My sister was dead, and it was because of me.

 

_ It was because of me. _

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**I'm insanely tired as I'm finishing this up, so please forgive me.**

**But Tabbie is finally reunited <3**

* * *

**World_Lover12 : Yeah, it's been a long time. Hopefully I can keep up the updating, but that really just depends on my inspiration flow. It comes and go as it damn well pleases, without any regard to what I want.**


	34. Gateways

_ Because of me. _

 

The statement continued to run through my head over the following days. Every time I looked at Violet, I felt as though I were no longer looking at my baby sister, but rather her murdered corpse. Manslaughter could be an applicable charge to my role in her death, couldn’t it? After all, wasn’t  _ I _ the one who had ultimately pushed her to her decision?

 

She didn’t know. Violet thought she was still alive. Tate tried to explain it to me, how life and death worked in the house under certain circumstances, but it was a little difficult for me to understand. Sometimes the dead didn’t realize that’s what they were - dead. Sometimes they thought they were still alive and went about their lives as normal, so long as it didn’t involve leaving the property.

 

He’d been convincing Violet to skip school each day since her death under the claim that he didn’t think she was ready to hear the truth, that he was trying to protect her for as long as he could. For me, he’d said; it had been for me, what he was doing for Violet, because he knew how much I cared for my sister and how upset I’d be - and I was - if anything happened to her.

 

It was the small things that he did, things like  _ that _ , that sometimes made it easy to forget or even disregard the fact that he had murdered fifteen people.

 

I hadn’t the heart to tell her. It felt wrong for me not to tell her the truth about what she was, what had happened to her, but at the same time it also felt wrong for me to take away whatever little happiness she still might have had. The truth weighed on me, and I’d rather suffer through that than be yet another reason for her to be upset. At least for a little while; I knew I’d have to tell her eventually, or she’d find out on her own.

 

Ben had come home late that night. He hadn’t seen me until the following morning, and surprise didn’t even start to cover the emotions that flickered over him upon finding me back in the house. Remorse seemed to be one of them, but I wasn’t playing into it. I didn’t even feel the smallest twinge of sympathy for him regarding the wound bandaged on his arm. For all that he had done to the family, to Mom, I believed he deserved it.

 

_ “I’m just here for my sister,” I told him plainly, allowing the anger to seep through my tone. “She needs someone to be there for her now that Mom is locked up in some institution.” _

 

_ Ben sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Abbie -” _

 

_ “No.” My voice, though displaying only some of the negative emotion I felt towards him, remained relatively calm and plain. “I’m not speaking to you about any of this. You’ve made your choices. I’m just here to pick up the mess you’ve left behind.” _

 

It was amazing, really. Just when I thought our relationship couldn’t be anymore strained, anymore  _ severed _ , than it already was; something else had to happen. Though angry beyond belief, I couldn’t blame him for all of it. Partial fault did fall on me as well, regarding where we stood today, but the way I saw it - though my view might have been biased - I was not the one who continued to make bad decisions out of spite or disregard for his family.

 

I honestly didn’t want anything more to do with him by this point. My anger and disappointment had reached the point of not even caring if we never spoke to one another again. But I had to suck it up and suffer through any interaction for Violet. She was why I was there, I came home for  _ her _ , and I wasn’t going to let my father stand in the way of me finally being there for my sister.

 

I was brought out of my thoughts by someone knocking at the front door. Setting down the pitcher of iced tea, I slowly made my way out to the foyer and opened the door. Standing there were two people, a man and a woman. He was on the shorter side with pointed features and faintly beady eyes. She was average height with familiar features and blonde hair under dark roots.

 

Someone knocked at the front door, prompting Ben to answer it. I only vaguely listened in as I poured myself a glass of iced tea. Nobody particularly interesting came to mind when I thought of who it could be. Eva, Lana, and Marion would have called first; and Constance wouldn’t have even bothered knocking, she would have just waltzed in through the back door. So, as far as I was concerned, there was no reason to put in the effort to so much as pretend to be curious.

 

It wasn’t until a familiar, grating voice reached my ears that I bothered giving my attention to the conversation that was going on. I peeked out of the kitchen and into the foyer to find Hayden standing at Ben’s side, a hand placed at her hip as she smirked at the two people just outside: a shorter man with pointed features and beady eyes and a woman with sandy hair that verged between blonde and brown and who faintly resembled the young woman who had helped break this family apart.

 

Hayden scoffed in response to something the woman had said. “Uh, to be honest with you, Marla, I didn’t think you gave a rat’s ass about me. I thought you were calling to borrow money again.”

 

The woman, Marla, sighed. “So you’re okay then? You’re obviously not missing.”

 

“Nope. You don’t have to worry about me, sis. You were wrong about Ben.” She hooked her arm through Ben’s, leaning into his side as everyone seemingly remained oblivious to my intruding presence. “I’ve decided to stay here in La-La Land. This is my home now.”

 

My anger flared before tampering back down, almost fizzling out like the final embers in a fire. I just didn’t have the energy, the  _ strength _ , to hold so much anger over their indiscretion anymore. They’d done made their choices and continued to pursue their relationship even after everything. At this point, what was the point in being mad? What was the point in even giving them the satisfaction of seeing me upset over it?

 

_ They weren’t worth it _ .

 

I made my presence known by starting up the stairs. Climbing up and down them was more tiring than I’d like to admit to anyone, even myself, especially if I was carrying something and couldn’t use the railing for support. One hand always had to be at my back to soothe the strain my large front was causing. My other hand would have to grab onto the railing as though anchoring myself through the motions. It was a test of my skewed balance to go up or down without that wooden support system.

 

Four pairs of eyes went to me as I went up silently. The most acknowledgement I gave them was a dirty look sent towards the only two I actually knew. Ben stepped forward as though to say something, perhaps even offer his help, but ultimately withdrew his decision. A smart move on his part. At least my message seemed to have gotten through to him.

 

Tate and Violet were hanging out in my room when I finally managed to shove myself through the doorway. Both of their heads turned towards me when I entered, but their expressions differed wildly. Whereas Tate’s face lit up with a grin and a twinkle to his soulful eyes, Violet’s clouded with apprehension and the faintest hint of anxiety.

 

“You’re not going to tell on me, are you?” she asked. “For skipping school?”

 

The worry she expressed had a shot of pain grabbing at my already bruised heart. I remembered when we lived back in Boston and she would skip school. Even then I never ratted her out to our parents. Like any older sister, I held it over her head and used it in exchange for a favor, but I always made her promise to attend the following day. Her education was just as important to me as it should have been to Mom and Ben, but ultimately, she was almost sixteen and it was her decision whether or not school was right for her.

 

Unfortunately that choice had been forced upon her without her consent nor consideration to her feelings on the matter. She just wasn’t yet aware of it.

 

My lips curved up at the corners to present to her a small smile that felt pained to myself. “When have I ever told on you?”

 

I crossed over to where they sat on my bed and joined them. They both moved slightly to give me space to move, helping me to settle into a comfortable position on my mattress. It was a tad embarrassing how much space I did indeed take up with my enlarged front, but I had to remind myself that it was worth it. My stomach was sheltering my son, I could sacrifice a little of what I had left of my dignity in order to provide a safe space for him to grow and develop.

 

“When I broke your doll.”

 

“Okay, first of all, I was seven,” I defended with a soft laugh, “and second, Muffy was like my security blanket. Of course I cried when you killed her.”

 

Violet chuckled, quiet but genuine. “You make it sound like I murdered someone.”

 

I just barely held back the grimace prompted by her wording. Instead I just rolled my eyes, trying to focus on the positive of the conversation: Violet had laughed. She was smiling, she was laughing, she was joking around with me. It had been a long while since we'd shared any sort of light-hearted banter like this. I cherished it. It reminded me of a better, simpler time in our lives.

 

“You stomped her head like a old pumpkin, Violet. You knew what you were doing, in your evil little five year old mind.”

 

Violet rolled her eyes and gently bumped me with her arm. “Whatever. Just drink your tea.”

 

I childishly stuck my tongue out at her before taking a sip from the glass wetting my hand with cool condensation. Having her in a relatively good mood was seemingly enough for my own spirits to lift some. The additional tension from Hayden almost melted from the forefront of my mind and blended into the recess of shadows until its prime time to resurface. It was just shy of being able to bring me to a state of relaxation. As always, the little problematic bean in my womb prevented me from finding that sweet spot.

 

Tate, who had been watching silently in amusement at our rare sisterly banter, smiled and placed his hand on my knee. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Fine,” I shrugged, opting not to mention what had happened downstairs just a few moments prior and instead changing the subject. “So what are you two up to?”

 

For the next couple of hours, we just continued to hang out in my room. We played card games, listened to music, watched YouTube videos. Pretty much we just did whatever we could think of that didn’t require much movement or physical effort. I knew they were mostly suggesting low-energy activities out of courtesy for the one person in the room who had difficulty moving, which was myself, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

 

I enjoyed having the time to spend with them both. Before I moved to the Cortez, the majority of my time at home was spent with Tate, especially once Violet and I had our falling out. Even then I had missed the time I used to share with my sister. It was nice to be able to have both of them as stable company for a change, at the same time.

 

Unfortunately, it did have to come to an end later on in the day, when I had to leave to collect my things from the hotel. Things had been sort of hectic for me. I hadn’t had the chance to stop by and get my belongings just yet. Elizabeth, when I’d called the front desk and had talked with Iris about it, had been kind enough to pack everything up for me and wait for my return to take them home.

 

A young woman was standing out on the porch when I exited the house. Her presence startled me only slightly. I had not been expecting anyone to be there, but after all that I had seen and experienced since moving to California, I couldn’t say the unexpected visitor fazed me much.

 

Her vibrant green eyes blinked almost innocently as she turned to look at me. “Hello. I have an appointment with Dr. Harmon?”

 

My brow furrowed as I took in her appearance. Glossy ebony curls paired with the radiant hue of her eyes, contrasting delicately with her porcelain complexion. She looked familiar to me. It triggered something within my mind, but I couldn’t quite figure out where I knew her from.

 

Realizing I’d been staring, I shook myself back into reality and pulled the door open a little wider. “Yeah, of course. Come on inside. I’ll just let him know you’re here.”

 

The woman offered up a polite smile and nodded her head. She stepped in, her motions light and graceful. With her back to me briefly, I frowned as I tried to wrack my mind for any recollection of who this woman was; it was bothering the absolute hell out of me.

 

“May I have your name?” I asked before tacking on, “So I can tell Dr. Harmon who’s waiting to see him.”

 

“Elizabeth Short.”

 

It took a second for the significance of the name to register with me. When it did, however, I merely nodded my head and went off to tell Ben that the  _ Black Dahlia _ was awaiting his session. After all that I had seen since moving into that house, I really didn’t have much in me to be surprised anymore. Whatever happened now was sort of shrugged off and merely accepted.

 

After informing Ben, I made my way back downstairs with him close behind and offered her a genial smile on my way out. Honestly I was more surprised at the fact that she lacked the faux smile that Dr. Curan had given her on his operating table; but then again, Tate had been shot up by the SWAT team, and he lacked any of the physical evidence to suggest that had ever happened. So maybe death worked differently for everyone in terms of the physical markers.

 

Elizabeth was waiting in the lobby for me when I arrived at the Cortez.

 

“Abigail.” Elizabeth glided to me gracefully and took my hands in hers. “I do hope your situation improves, love. You are always welcome back here should you need a place to stay again.”

 

I smiled. “Thank you, Elizabeth. For everything.”

 

Eyes softening, she pulled me into a gentle yet affectionate hug. The move surprised me. I hadn’t been expecting it, nor had I seen her as the type to embrace someone in such a friendly manner. But I accepted the gesture and reciprocated, wrapping my arms around her slender frame in a sign of my gratitude for all she had done for me in the month that I had made my home there.

 

When we separated, I grabbed my bags and lifted them over my shoulder. They weren’t heavy, just more so than I remembered them being. I dismissed the apparent additional weight as excess from various shopping trips and gifts.

 

“Say goodbye to everyone for me?” I requested.

 

Her ruby lips curled into a soft smile. “Of course. Goodbyes are not forever, Abigail. They only mean you will be missed until we meet again.”

 

My smile transitioned into one of confusion. Though I appreciated the sentiment, I found it odd for her to state something of that nature. Like she was certain I would return someday, as though she were suggesting things at home wouldn’t work out and I’d be back here, begging for a room to keep me shelter.

 

I shook off the thoughts.  _ You’re reading too much into it, Abbie. She’s just being optimistic. Stop looking for hidden meanings in everything, you paranoid nut. _

 

With a farewell kiss to the cheek, Elizabeth saw me off. I caught a glance of James up in the lounge as I exited. He was watching me intently. When he caught my gaze, he merely dipped his head in acknowledgement, the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips.

 

It was a shame that I was unable to say goodbye to everyone myself, but I did have another reason for heading out that day. Gateways Hospital had opened visiting hours up for Mom that day, and I wanted to see her as soon as I could. I’d kept that from Tate and Violet when explaining my reasons for leaving them alone for a little while. Violet couldn’t leave the house to visit her, and I didn’t want her to feel bad if she chose not to go or be forced to learn the truth about herself.

 

Maybe it was wrong for me to try and keep it from her. She deserved to know that she was dead, didn’t she? But she was my baby sister. It was my job to protect her. I hadn’t done a very good job of doing that as of late, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t try my best to do it now.

 

My nerves were aflutter as I was escorted by an orderly towards the recreational center of the healthcare building. The increased rate of my heartbeats had my baby more active than usual. He was kicking and rolling around, seemingly disturbed or maybe even excited by my heart racing.

 

Mom was sitting by the window, her eyes seeming almost dead as she stared outside. She looked exhausted, as though Death himself had made her a visit to give her a warning of an upcoming end. It hurt to see her like that. When she had always been so vibrant and full of life, seeing her more worn down than ever before was hard.

 

The orderly pointed me in her direction, leaving me to cautiously approach her. “Mom?”

 

Her head turned, and it was like some life was injected into her. Upon seeing me, her face lit up some and a spark of happiness glimmered over the dull glint to her eye. She flashed me a tired smile, but I could see the true joy that peeked through it.

 

“Abbie,” she sighed, moving to try and lift up from her seat.

 

“Don’t get up.” I smiled softly and bent over to give her a hug, kissing her cheek before pulling back and moving to the chair beside her. “How are you?”

 

She let out a small chuckle, the sound airy and sarcastic. “Oh, I’m doing just great. Living the life in this luxury retreat.”

 

My lips split into a tight, pained, sympathetic smile. I knew she wasn’t doing well. I didn’t know why I even bothered asking. Maybe it was out of habit or politeness, or maybe I just needed a conversation starter. Whatever it had been, I almost felt guilty for asking.

 

“Sorry,” I apologized with a grunt as I finally managed to lower myself into the chair.

 

Mom shook her head. “No, don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

 

“Well, I’m still sorry.” I sighed and pushed my hair back from my face. “I’m sorry for a lot of things, actually.”

 

“You know what?” She let out a sigh reminiscent of mine and reached over to place her hand on top of mine. “Me too.”

 

For the next hour, we just talked and enjoyed each other’s company. I caught her up on what was happening at home, for the most part, and she told me of what it had been like for the past three days in the hospital. On the exterior it didn’t seem so bad, but of course that didn’t account for all that she was dealing with internally, the pregnancy hormones and feelings of betrayal and isolation and God only knew what else.

 

I didn’t want to leave her in that place. The only reason I allowed myself to practically be escorted out was because the visiting hours for her had been drawn to a close. Just as I was led to her by an orderly, I was guided back out of the building by another one. I’d departed with a hug, a kiss, and a promise that I would return to visit her - and that I would find some way to have her discharged so she could come back home.

 

Though part of me did wonder vaguely if perhaps it were better for her to stay in Gateways’ care. It would certainly save her the emotional battery that came with all the drama at home. That would in turn help her towards a healthier pregnancy as she was alway from the main source of stress.

 

Of course that decision wasn’t for me to make.

 

It weighed me down the drive home. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything. My mind was a whirlwind fit to give my turbulent emotions a run for their money. The storm it created within me nearly took my focus off of driving as my mind was focused intently, struggling to shuffle through it all and come up with some sort of solution to everything, but I managed to make it back to the house safely with only a single horn blared in my direction.

 

I sighed as I tossed my keys on the island. A dull throbbing had begun to settle at my temples and across the band of my forehead. All I wanted was something to help soothe the ache, then maybe a warm bath and a small nap.

 

Hallie’s nails clicked against the linoleum as she bounced around my heels. She yipped excitedly, twirling in a circle and looking up at me with her wide brown eyes. Chuckling softly, I carefully stepped around her energetic body and opened the backdoor for her to go outside. Hallie gave a short yap as though to show gratitude and bounded out into the backyard.

 

A hand suddenly wrapped itself in my hair, fisting the clump tightly, and yanked me backwards. The abrupt action had me shouting out in stunned pain as the motion threw me off balance. I collided with the floor, the back of my head knocking against the hard surface. Hallie’s aggressive barks just barely penetrated the ringing in my ears before being muffled by the deafening thud of the door slamming shut.

 

The impact had squeezed the oxygen from my lungs, leaving me wheezing for air as my chest tightened painfully. It distracted me just long enough for a body to settle on top of mine, a pair of legs straddling my thighs with the knees pinning them together. I blinked to clear the haze that had filmed over my vision. Gradually a familiar head of auburn hair came into view. Honey brown eyes glinted maliciously and pale pink lips twisted into a corresponding smirk.

 

“ _ H-Hayden . . . _ ”

 

“Oh, so you  _ do _ know my name!” She let out a small laugh reminiscent of a maniacal sort of giggle. “I wasn’t sure that you did, since all you seem to call me is a whore. Which is awfully hypocritical of you when you went and got yourself knocked up by the psychopath before you’re even eighteen.”

 

“ _ Get . . . Get off! _ ”

 

I tried to move out from under her or knock her off, but my admittedly weak attempts were stalled. Hayden released a small  _ “ah ah” _ sound, as though reprimanding me, and reached up over the island before coming back with a large kitchen knife.

 

My blood ran cold as the blade glinted, reflecting back to me my face: bloated and red with wide eyes glistening with the start of fearful tears. As though it were about to pound its way straight out of my chest, my heart raced. The activity caused my little bean to become more lively. He rolled around and stretched, each of his movements visible as the flesh over my stomach showed each trace of motion.

 

I swallowed thickly as I stared up at my father’s mistress. “Hayden, please . . .”

 

“ _ Hayden, please _ ,” she mocked before sighing wistfully and tilting her head to the side. “It really isn’t fair, you know? You get to have some dead kid’s baby, but I didn’t get to have mine. Now what can we do about that?”

 

Her eyes glinted malevolently as she flicked her gaze down, briefly but pointedly, to my ballooning abdomen. It took little to no time for her meaning to resonate with me. Out of survival instinct and the need to protect my unborn child, I tried bucking my hips up to dislodge her, but the burdensome girth that had enveloped my entire middle made the move awkward and futile.

 

Hayden merely tutted at the pathetic attempt. “I know you wanna protect your son, Abbie . . . but I’m getting my baby.”

 

She raised the knife above her head in a stereotypical sacrificial gesture, with both hands wrapped firmly around the handle. Desperately attempting to move around the obstacle of my stomach, I screamed out for help. I didn’t care who the hell came to help me, it could be those ones who’d tried to kill my mother and sister;  _ I just needed help _ .

 

The blade was promptly brought down onto the swollen area of my stomach. I yelled out as I felt the tip pierce into my skin just before she was swiftly knocked off of me. There was a scuffle behind the island just out of my eyesight, but I was far more focused on the damage potentially inflicted upon my stomach and what harm it could have done to my baby.

 

Blood stained the front of my shirt from where I’d felt the knife cut through. Instantly I was struggling to simultaneously push myself up to at least a sitting position and yank up the thin sweater to assess the damage and stop the bleeding. Stinging tears blurred my vision something awful as I moved, the burning pain radiating with each tug and pull of my skin that came from each movement.

 

“Now go away!” I heard Tate shout before suddenly his face filled my shaky vision. His hands came to grab my face, his expression almost swimming in my tears as I struggled to get in a proper breath. “Breathe, baby. Abbie, it’s okay, just breathe. You’re okay.”

 

Shaking my head, I tried to tell him that she’d stabbed me. No words would come out. As the band around my chest grew tighter and tighter, my ability to speak and breathe diminished until I was once more wheezing for air, trying to get in a deep enough breath to start talking through the tears that poured down my face.

 

Tate pulled me in so my head was held against his chest, gently shushing me. He didn’t notice the blood. He hadn’t noticed. I could be bleeding into my abdomen and I couldn’t collect myself enough to tell him.

 

“Move out of the way,” another voice commanded.

 

“What the hell do you two want?”

 

“She’s bleeding,” someone else remarked. “Let me see.”

 

I was gently peeled out of Tate’s arms. Patrick knelt down in front of me and slowly lifted my sweater to reveal the source of the blood. Chad stood behind him with the small first aid kit from our bathroom, arms tucked across his chest and handing Patrick what he asked for when he asked for it.

 

Carefully wiping away the blood, Patrick shook his head and looked to me. “It’s superficial. You’re just a bleeder. I’ll clean it and tape some gauze over it, and you and the baby will be just fine.”

 

Relieved, I nodded my head and worked on my breathing, gradually filling my lungs more and more with each inhale. Tate came to my other side while Patrick cleaned me up, sitting at my side and putting his arm around my shoulder, tucking me affectionately against him. I closed my eyes and turned my head into his shoulder.

 

Chad rolled his eyes as Patrick handed over the soiled wipes, tinted pink, but took and tossed them out before speaking to me, “You are honestly the most problematic teenager I have ever met - and I know your sister and  _ him _ . First you get bitten by Nora’s little monster and now this. Be mindful when taking the stairs, I’m not standing by while Patrick patches up your busted head.”

 

I smiled faintly but winced as even that small action sent my head throbbing. Noticing, Patrick finished up with my wound and came up to check the back of my head from where it hit the floor. Once I was declared fine, they cleaned up after themselves and left Tate and I alone in the kitchen.

 

“I’ve gotta let Hallie in,” I recalled.

 

Tate stood and helped pull me to my feet. Grunting at the faint sting from my stomach and settling throbbing from my head, I opened the door to let Mom’s dog back inside. Hallie rushed in barking, her hackles raised and her teeth bared as she growled at Tate. I just sighed and ordered her to her bed. Always having been a good listener, she obeyed and went to lie down, her eyes never once leaving Tate.

 

With my acceptance, he began guiding me from the kitchen and towards the stairs. It was a struggle for him to help me up them. Each throb of my head had me feeling as though I were about to pass out. All I wanted to do was curl up in bed with Tate and sleep forever. I didn’t want to speak to anyone, I didn’t want to see anyone.

 

What had started off as a bad day had turned a little better only to plummet back down past where it had been before. While it hadn’t necessarily been the  _ worst _ day I’d lived since the move, it certainly made it into the top five.

 

I traded my ruined clothes for an oversized t-shirt and worn pair of sweatpants before crawling into bed.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tate murmured apologetically as his arms encircled my form. “I should have been there to stop her earlier.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” I assured him quietly. “Let’s just be glad no damage was done. Our baby’s okay.”

 

And it wasn’t. Why would it be his fault? I didn’t know exactly how the whole “ghost” thing worked, but even I knew that he couldn’t be in more than one place at once, just like any human. So he hadn’t been there to stop her before it had all went down. The important thing was that he’d been there to stop her before our son was hurt. He’d stopped her, and we were both safe; that was the important thing for us to remember.

 

“If any of them bother you again, just tell them to go away, and they will. I promise.”

 

“. . . Is it really that easy?”

 

Tate’s chest rose and fell with a few quick, soft chuckles before he kissed the top of my head. “It really is. Now you get some rest, baby. You and little Kurt need your rest.”

 

“ _ Tate _ ,” I warned, lightly smacking his chest in retribution. “We are  _ not _ naming him that unless we want him getting beat up.”

 

“Fine, fine.” He slid down so he was able to hold me better, in a position that proved more comfortable for both of us. “So what  _ are _ we naming him then?”

 

That was a good question. If I was being honest with myself, I hadn’t given too much thought to names since everything went down. Maybe a few times here and there I had played around with a few ideas, but I’d decided early on that I wasn’t going to make a choice without Tate’s input. This wasn’t just my baby, it was  _ our _ son,  _ our _ little bean. He deserved just as much right to the name our son would bear as I did.

 

I bit my lip as some of the names I’d considered resurfaced. “I’ve thought about Kit or Elliot . . . What do you think?”

 

I tipped my head up to see a grimace on his face. It was obvious that he wasn’t a fan of either of them. To be fair, I wasn’t surprised he wasn’t exactly a fan of Kit. It was an older name. I wasn’t terribly fond of the name myself, if I were being completely honest, but I thought it would be nice to honor my grandfather. Though there were surely other ways I could do that without naming my son something that even I didn’t particularly like.

 

“Yeah . . .” I sighed, chewing on my lip light before suggesting another one. “I’ve also thought about Michael?”

 

It wasn’t a name that I had considered often, but it had crossed my mind once or twice. Michael Langdon, in my opinion, just had a nice ring to it. Seeing his face lighten slightly as he considered it, I smiled and lifted myself up some to better see his face.

 

“Michael Langdon,” I recited to him. “Michael Kurt Langdon.”

 

The surprise at the proffered middle name was immediate as he stared at me, shaken from his thoughts of consideration for the name. His brows had raised faintly to further convey the flash of emotion. I’d said that we weren’t naming our son that,  _ multiple _ times, but it was a name he really seemed to want. Kurt Cobain was someone he’d idolized, and I figured I could deal with that; we could incorporate the name without it being the name he was known by.

 

“Really? Kurt?”

 

I nodded and tapped my fingers against his chest, my lower lip between my teeth as I awaited his feedback. He grinned and dipped his head down to kiss me. The action lasted briefly, but was soft and full of the love and affection that I had missed and craved while I was at the hotel. It was warm and comforting, surrounding me with a much needed sense of security and  _ home _ .

 

He was quick to cradle me more securely in his arms. I was held gingerly yet firmly against his chest. My ear rested directly over his heart, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest as his presence surrounded and engulfed me in a strange sense of peace. It was like, now that I was certain we had settled on a name, we were actually a  _ family _ . Maybe it was odd, but that was how it felt, and I loved it.

 

“I love it,” he finally murmured, kissing the top of my head. “Michael Kurt Langdon.”

 

_ Michael Kurt Langon _ .

* * *

_**World_Lover12 : Thank you, darling. I appreciate you saying that. I just always feel so bad neglecting my posted stories. I try to keep them private until they're a good way finished, but I just get so excited and impatient and have** _ **to share them. I'm glad you're enjoying the story nevertheless, and I hope you can keep doing so!**


	35. Of Human and Spirit

“So, Nora tells me you two have finally named the little spawn.”

 

My brow rose in Chad’s direction at his crude terminology. His attitude was not one that particularly phased me much. In fact, as I’d noted back when I’d first met him, it was one I could rather appreciate. The sass and the sarcasm, they were both qualities that I thought were depressingly underrated as it was. However, it was welcomed as much when it was directed scathingly towards Michael.

 

Tate tensed beside me, glaring at him. “Yeah, we have named  _ our baby _ .”

 

Ever since Tate and I had agreed on Michael, the dark cloud that had been hanging over us all had seemed to lift just a little, just enough to let the smallest rays of sunshine through. It was almost enough to make me wonder if perhaps things were finally starting to look up for me, for my family.  _ Almost _ . I wasn’t naive enough to truly believe that.

 

The only genuinely good thing I could think of that could possibly have my life starting to improve was the impending arrival of my son, and even then I was perpetually fretting over raising him in the environment as it was currently.

 

Chad smirked and, reminiscent of the day we met, tipped his wine glass towards us. My mouth twisted into a small grimace as I tried reaching across the island for the honey I'd set out. Muted grunts slipped past my lips as I stretched. My stomach, as it was now prone to do, was just getting in the way as it pressed into the edge of the countertop.

 

“I would appreciate if you wouldn't refer to my baby like he's the spawn of Satan or something. Thanks,” I said as Chad slid the honey over to me even while I was reprimanding him for how he talked about my baby. “But yes, we’ve agreed on a name for him.”

 

Moira, washing up the dishes that she had beaten me too, sent the other resident a scolding look and flashed me a withered smile over her shoulder. “That's nice, dear. May I ask what you have chosen to name the sweet babe?”

 

It didn't escape my notice how she seemed to ignore Tate. In fact, it had come to my attention that pretty much every ghost within the house seemed to stray away from him as they could. Tate had talked of it maybe once or twice but hadn't bothered with much detail as to why that was. Though I was starting to get the impression that maybe there was more to his story than he was letting on, but it wasn't something I particularly cared to pursue at that point in time. I already knew too damn much about everything regarding the infamous Murder House.

 

I stirred some honey into my tea and smiled. “Michael. Michael Kurt Langdon.”

 

Tate’s arm slipped around my waist as I shared the name of our soon-to-be new arrival. Instinctively, I leaned into his side, shifting only slightly on the bar stool I’d managed to slide myself up on as I sat at the kitchen island. He was still tensed, I could feel it wrapped within his muscles, like a tightly coiled spring that was just begging to be unsprung. I let my free hand drift down to rest overtop his, interlacing our fingers with my thumb rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles.

 

Chad's face screwed up slightly, the dislike evident on his dark features. He didn't even need to speak for me to know what it was directed towards. Personally I wasn't too fond of the middle name myself, but Tate had just as much right to name our son as I did, so I'd compromised. It wasn't like he would ever actually go by anything other than his first name or a nickname from it.

 

I subtly shook my head at him, silently requesting that he please not say anything. Tensions around here, particularly in the kitchen at that very moment, were high enough as it were.

 

“What a lovely name,” Moira complimented.

 

My hand squeezed Tate's gently as her comment seemed to put him a little more off his edge. I relaxed some myself feeling some of the tension in his muscles seemingly melt away just a little. Though it didn’t go away completely. That was to be expected, however, given everything - and by everything, it really was  _ everything _ that was keeping tensions high. The situation as a whole was one in which it was impossible to relax.

 

I thanked Moira. Even if she didn’t mean it, at least she had the courtesy not to show disrespect. That was one of the reasons I truly admired the elderly woman. She knew her place, so to speak, in terms of respect and human decency. Honestly I didn’t really look to her as just the maid. Maybe it was because she reminded me of my own grandmother that I harbored a soft spot for her.

 

Chad rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, I have something to show you - and you too, I suppose,” he added disdainfully, flickering his vision towards Tate.

 

An eyebrow arched curiously. “And what would that be?”

 

“It’s a surprise.” He grinned, sipping at his wine. “Finish your tea and I’ll show you.”

 

To say I was interested would be a small understatement, though I found myself to be more skeptical and cautious than anything. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, but with everything that had happened - and that was  _ always _ happening, my guard was up almost constantly. But I  _ was _ curious, so I made quick work of my peppermint tea in anticipation of this surprise.

 

Tate and I followed Chad up the stairs. The journey was slow-going as Tate had to help me with the steps, my center of balance having shifted and I nearly toppling backwards a couple of times; Tate’s hand firmly against my back had been the only thing to help keep me upright as we ascended. He kept his palm there even when we reached the landing and started down the hall towards the spare bedroom.

 

Inside Patrick and Violet were standing in a room that I no longer recognized. Gone were the prison grey walls, replaced by a neutral shade of beige striped with a crisp white on the shorter sides. The dulled, worn out carpeting remained the same but was now accented by a rectangular rug that matched the paint. Two wooden cribs were placed with a small, matching dresser pushed between them. A rocking chair had been erected in the corner by a bookcase that only had a couple of books shelved and a toy chest on the other side.

 

“What is all this?” I asked, glancing around the room in an awe-filled sort of confusion.

 

Patrick stood from where he’d been tinkering with a post on one of the cribs, placing a hand on the side. “A nursery, for the babies. We don’t know what gender your mom is having, so we decided on a neutral theme.”

 

The more I took it all in, the more I felt the emotions welling. Tears began brimming my eyes. An all too familiar sensation, though this time it had no root in the distress that constantly engulfed me. This time it was out of something positive, out of affection, out of the best disbelief and overwhelming realization that such a small gesture could hold such an impact. It was something I hadn’t even realized I’d needed until now when I finally had it in front of me.

 

Violet’s lips curved into the smile that I saw so little of these days, her own eyes sparkling brightly as she walked towards me. “Do you like it? We thought it might help ease things up for you, with everything else going on right now.”

 

I reached forward and gathered her into a hug that I wish could have been more secure, but the large protrusion of my stomach prevented the contact that I desperately missed.

 

“I love it,” I sniffed, beyond the level of happiness that would be considered normal for something so mundane. “Thank you so much.”

 

Pulling away, I then proceeded to hug both Chad and Patrick, taking them both off guard as I showed my immense gratitude. My apology to them was wavery with my emotions. A short, watery laugh bubbled past my lips as I stepped back to Tate’s side, reaching up to wipe away the tears that had stemmed from the surprise.

 

The sound of the home alarm system being set off was a rude interruption to the sensible moment that was being shared. I jumped a bit at the sudden blast of noise, my eyes widening as my increased heart rate prompted Michael to go into a flurry of motion. My hand came to my stomach almost instinctively, rubbing absently at the spots where he made the most prominent contact.

 

“What the hell?”

 

“Stay here,” Tate said, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll see what’s going on.”

 

I blinked as he vanished from my side. He faded like an old memory until the space beside me was empty. Knowing he could appear and disappear at will -  _ was it at will? _ \- was nothing compared to seeing it happen firsthand. Typically he did it when I wasn’t looking. It was a bit startling to see upfront.

 

Chad gave a short chuckle, leaning against the wall with his arms folded casually over his chest. “It must be strange for a  _ ghost _ to be the father of your baby. Tell me, what are you gonna tell little  _ Michael _ when he starts asking questions?”

 

“Chad,” chided Patrick.

 

“What? Sooner or later, he’s gonna realize that daddy doesn’t age.”

 

Violet scoffed, “Well maybe it’s none of your business.”

 

“No, no. It’s fine,” I grunted, carefully lowering myself into the rocking chair as my feet were beginning to ache from standing. “I hadn’t really thought about it . . . I suppose we’ll just cross that bridge when we get to it.”

 

Chad did have a good point. Tate was frozen perpetually at the young age of seventeen. He’d stopped aging the year I was born. There would definitely come a time where we’d have to explain to Michael why that was. When he was old enough, of course, to properly understand the meaning behind it. Every young child believed in ghosts as they hadn’t yet been conditioned not to, but that didn’t mean they necessarily understood death and what may or may not come from it.

 

But wasn’t my - our - little bean going to be raised around all of that? I knew I needed to escape the grasp of the house, needed to get away from the toxicity that plagued it, but I also knew that Tate deserved to be in Michael’s life as well. That was something else I needed to think more on, figure out exactly what I was going to do.

 

He just shrugged. “It’s your kid. Just know talking about the ‘birds and the bees’ will be nothing compared to having to explain that daddy dearest is dead - not to mention who he was before,” he tacked on smoothly.

 

My mouth twisted into a grimace at the thought.

 

A knock at the door drew our attention. Moira was standing in the threshold, folding her hands politely in front of her. Her gaze flicked briefly around the room before coming back to me. A withered smile kindly touched her lips.

 

“Abigail, Constance wishes to speak with you,” she announced. “She’s waiting downstairs.”

 

Nodding, I thanked the elderly woman and asked that she tell Constance I would be down momentarily. The request was only appropriate due to the fact that I knew it would be a struggle to get there. Moira complied and headed back downstairs.

 

The chair rocked back and forth as I did. I grunted with each push forward, only to fall back to where I was each time. Finally I heaved a sigh and extended my arms in a silent plea for some assistance.

 

The “fluffers” snorted as Violet grabbed hold of my hands and helped to pull me up.

 

“Where the hell is Tate?” I grumbled.

 

It was only with Violet’s help that I managed to make my way down the grand staircase. Her dainty hand pressed firmly against my back while the other held my upper arm just by my elbow. I was afraid that if I were to fall that she wouldn’t be able to stop or support me, given how petite she was, but she stuck by my side and helped me down to level flooring.

 

Constance was indeed waiting for me in the kitchen. Her face lifted from the scowl it had been set in when we entered, directed at Moira - who had a rather unpleasant expression on her face as well, leaving me to believe that perhaps they had gotten into another disagreement as they seemed rather apt to do - and brightened to flash me a smile.

 

“Abigail,” she greeted warmly, moving forward to embrace me in the same manner as she always did upon seeing me. “You’re absolutely glowing, and that outfit is adorable on you.”

 

As she pulled back, I glanced down to my oversized sweater and jeans. “Uh, thanks. You needed to talk to me about something?”

 

Her hands came up to mess with my hair, fluffing it lightly and pushing aside some strands, before she retreated all together. “Yes, but it’s a rather . . . private matter, so I was hoping that you’d agree to come over. We can chat over some tea.”

 

“Oh, well . . . all right. I suppose that’ll be okay.”

 

The glint in her eye led me to believe that what she wanted to speak with me about was something important. Urgent, even. As much as I wanted to decline, to say no and just stay inside to relax all day, something told me that it was important to hear what she had to say. So I allowed her to guide me over to her house.

 

Billie Dean Howard was sat at the table when I entered, a cigarette poised elegantly between her fingers. Her attention flickered to me, but there was no hint of a jovial greeting on her face. The look to her brown eyes was somber, lines of upset etched into her youthful face.

 

“You remember Billie Dean, of course,” Constance said as she helped me down into a chair. “I asked her here because I was . . . concerned about Michael.”

 

My brows knitted together as I watched her take a seat by the medium. “Concerned?”

 

The youthful blonde blew out a stream of smoke. I crinkled my nose in distaste, pushing aside the instinct I had to cover my face. At least she was considerate enough to blow the smoke in a different direction. Though I still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the toxins that were being inhaled secondhand anyway since they were lingering in the air.

 

“Spirits aren’t particularly known for their potency,” Billie Dean stated. “But, as you have learned, there may be a circumstance in which there is a conception.”

 

I frowned.

 

“When a new Pope has been chosen, and the bells of St. Peter’s, he is shown into a small chamber next to the Sistine Chapel. They call it the ‘Room of Tears,’ named for the sublime mixture of joy and sorrow that he must contemplate at this moment. He is brought a key to the Pope’s box. It has been said that this box contains the ultimate secret. It holds the secret of the end of the world.”

 

Billie Dean’s voice was grave as she spoke, solemn with the seriousness and conviction of the topic. It admittedly sent chills prickling at my skin. A cloud of unease hung over me, draped over my mind like a storm that bore potential of damaging winds or other disastrous effects. Her eyes shone with a certain despair that implored I listen.

 

_ The end of the world _ \- that was perhaps the segment that stuck out to me most. How could someone equate a baby, such a defenseless being innocent of all wrongdoing, to something as controversial and  _ catastrophic _ as what was prophesied to be the end of mankind?

 

“For Christ’s sake, Billie Dean, the cameras aren’t rolling in here,” drawled Constance as she lit up a cigarette for herself, holding out the lighter for her guest to spark up a new one. “Will you just cut to the chase already? Tell her what you told me.”

 

“I was just giving some background.” She pulled out another cigarette. “Anyway . . . This piece of paper reveals the precise nature of the Antichrist:  _ ‘A child born of human and spirit will usher in the end of times.’ _ It is the essence of evil, a perversion of the Immaculate Conception.”

 

Dread filled the pit of my stomach.  _ A child born of human and spirit . . . _

 

I swallowed thickly. “What . . . What are you talking about?”

 

Constance sighed. “I know it’s difficult to hear, sweetheart. It is for me too - this  _ is _ my grandchild we’re talking about. But we have to understand the dangers. I mean, come on, honey. The Holy Ghost merely whispered in the Virgin Mary’s ear and she begat the son of God.”

 

My mouth and throat dried up like the last droplets of water evaporating from a well. The blood rushed in my ears, my heart pounding within my chest. I felt sick to my stomach. Michael reacted by tumbling into motion, kicking and rolling and stretching, as though he knew we were talking about him.

 

Flicking her ashes into the tray, Billie Dean tutted lightly. The hardened glimmer to her eye softened as she looked at me, maybe noting the nausea that was probably etched deep within the lines of my face, a grimace that suggested I might very well be physically sick within the next few moments. The churning in my stomach certainly held the possibility.

 

_ “If the devil’s going to use a human womb for his spawn, he’s going to want a little more bang for his buck.” _

* * *

**World_Lover12** **: I am pleased to hear that, and I'm glad you're able to take so much from their actions! Maybe they will meet up again someday... ;) Oh I most definitely do. It may have gotten confusing and complex in the middle there, but it all ties together with the entirety of Abbie's future. Thank you for enjoying!**

**Taylor : Thank you so much, that means so much to me. I'm glad you're enjoying this story. I am! I know my updates are spaced a little far apart now, but I do plan on seeing this story to the end.**

**The_Bloody_Saint** **: Aww, I'm glad you like that! I just thought it was cute. Ah, yes, poor Vivien. Ben needs to get his shit together. Well I'm glad you like the way I write her! I personally despised her, she just continued to be a problem throughout the entire season. That's wonderful! Really, you have no idea how much it means to me to hear that I've inspired someone. Even if you didn't choose to post it, I'm sure it was wonderful, and really the important thing is just to enjoy what you write. So you are most welcome :) x**


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